 13. Health enjoyed in the rigor of winter. Lake Cottage, March 14, 1834. I received your affectionate and interesting letter only last night, owing to an error in the direction. It had made round of two townships before it reached Peterborough. And though it bore as many new directions as the sailor's knife did, new blades and handles, it did at last reach me, and was not less prized for its travelling dress, being somewhat the worse for wear. I rejoiced to hear of your returning health and increased happiness may they long continue. Your expressions of regret for my exile as you term my residence in this country affected me greatly. At the assurance that I am not less happy than when I left my native land console you for my absence. If my situation be changed my heart is not, my spirits are as light as ever, and at times I feel a gaiety that bids defiance to all care. You say you fear the rigors of the Canadian winter will kill me. I never enjoyed better health nor so good as since it commenced. There is a degree of spirit and vigor infused into one's blood by the purity of air that is quite exhilarating. The very snow seems wider and more beautiful than it does in our damp, vapoury climate. During a keen bright winter's day you will often perceive the air filled with minute, frozen particles, which are quite dry and slightly prick your face like needle-points, while the sky is blue and bright above you. There is a decided difference between the first snowfalls and those of mid-winter. The first are in large, soft flakes, and seldom remain long without thawing, but those at fall, after the cold has regularly set in, are smaller, drier, and of the most beautiful forms, sometimes pointed like a cluster of rays, or else feathered in the most exquisite manner. I find my eyes much inconvenienced by the dazzling glitter of the snow on bright sunny days, so as to render my sight extremely dull and indistinct for hours after exposure to its power. I would strongly advise any one coming out to this country to provide themselves with blue or green glasses, and by no means to omit green crepe or green tissue veils. Poor Moses's gross of green spectacles would not have proved so bad a speck in Canada. Note. Oculists condemn coloured spectacles as injuring weak eyes by the heat which they occasion. Coloured gauze or coloured shades are preferable. Editor. Some few nights ago I was returning from visiting a sick friend. I was delighted by the effect produced by the frost. The earth, the trees, every stick, dried leaf and stone in my path was glittering with mimic diamonds, as if touched by some magical power. Objects the most rude and devoid of beauty had suddenly assumed a brilliancy that was dazzling beyond the most vivid fancy to conceive. Every frozen particle sent forth rays of bright light. You might have imagined yourself in Sinbad's valley of gems, nor was the temperature of the air at all unpleasantly cold. I have often felt the sensation of cold on a windy day in Britain far more severe than I have done in Canada when the mercury indicated a much lower degree of temperature. There is almost a trance like stillness in the air during our frosty nights that lessens the unpleasantness of the sensation. There are certainly some days of intense cold during our winter, but this low temperature seldom continues for more than three days together. The coldest part of the day is from an hour or two before sunrise, to about nine o'clock in the morning. By that time are blazing log fires, or metal stoves have warmed the house, so that you really do not care for the cold without. When out of doors you suffer less inconvenience than you would imagine whilst you keep in motion and are tolerably well clothed. The ears and nose are the most exposed to injury. Gentlemen sometimes make a singular appearance coming in from a long journey, that if it were not for pity's sake would draw from you a smile. Hair, whiskers, eyebrows, eyelashes, beard, all encrusted with whorefrost. I have seen young ladies going to evening parties with clustering ringlets, as jetty as your own, changed by the breath of fatherfrost to silvery whiteness, so that you could almost fancy the fair damsels had been suddenly metamorphed to their ancient grannies. Fortunately for youth and beauty such change is but transitory. In the towns and populous parts of the province the approach of winter is hailed with delight instead of dread. It is to all a season of leisure and enjoyment. Traveling is then expeditiously and pleasantly performed. Even our vile bush-rose become positively very respectable, and if you should happen to be overturned once or twice during a journey of pleasure, very little danger attends such an event, and very little compassion is bestowed on you for your tumble in the snow. So it is wisest to shake off your light burden and enjoy the fun with a good grace if you can. Traveling is certainly a very agreeable mode of travelling. The more snow the better the slaying season is considered, and the harder it becomes the easier the motion of a vehicle. The horses are all adorned with strings of little brass bells about their necks or middles. The merry jingle of these bells is far from disagreeable, producing a light, lively sound. The following lines I copied from a New York Albion for you. I think you will be pleased with them. Sleighbells. Tis merry to hear at evening time, by the blazing hearth the sleighbells chime. To know which bound of the steed brings near, the form of him to our bosom steer. Lightly we spring the fire to raise, to the rafter's glow with the ready blaze. Tis he, and wisely the gay bell sound. As a steed skims over the frozen ground, hark he has passed the gloomy wood. He crosses now the ice-bound flood, and sees the light from the open door, to hail his toilsome journey o'er. Our hut is small and rude our cheer, but love has spread the banquet here, and childhood springs to be caressed by our beloved and welcome guest. With smiling brow his tail he tells, they laughing ring the merry bells. From the cedar swamp the wolf may howl. From the blasted pine, loud whoop the owl. The sudden crash of the falling tree. Our sounds of terror, no more to me. No longer I list, with boating fear, the sleighbells merry peal to hear. This little poem by Mrs. Moody has since been printed in a volume of friendship's offering, with some alterations by the editor that deprive it a good deal of the simplicity of the original. End note. As soon as a sufficient quantity of snow has fallen, all vehicles of every description, from the stage-coach to the wheel-barrel, are supplied with wooden runners, shod with iron after the manner of skates. The usual equipages for travelling are the double sleigh, light wagon, and cutter. The two, former, are drawn by two horses abreast, but the latter, which is by far the most elegant-looking, has but one, and answers more to our gig or chase. Wrapped up in buffalo robes you feel no inconvenience from the cold, accepting to your face, which requires to be defended by a warm beaver or fur bonnet. The latter, I am surprised to find, is seldom, if ever worn, from the nonsensical reason that it has not the fashion. The red, grey, and black squirrels are abundant in our woods. The muskrat inhabits little houses that he builds in the rushy parts of the lake. These dwellings are formed of the roots of sedges, sticks, and other materials of a similar nature, and plastered with mud, over which a thick, close thatch is raised to the height of a foot or more above the water. They are of a round or dome-shape. They are distinctly visible, from the shore at some distance. The Indians set traps to ensnare these creatures in their houses, and sell their skins which are very thick and glossy towards winter. The beaver, the bear, the black lynx, and foxes are also killed, and brought to the stores by the hunters, where the skins are exchanged for goods or money. The Indians dress the deer skins for making moccasins, which are greatly sought after by the settlers in these parts. They are very comfortable in snowy weather, and keep the feet very warm, but you require several wrappings of cloth round the feet before you put them on. I wore a beautiful pair all last winter, worked with porcupine quills, and bound with scarlet ribbon. These elegant moccasins were the handicraft of an old squaw, the wife of Peter the Hunter. You have already heard of him in my former letters. I was delighted with a curious specimen of Indian orthography that accompanied the moccasins in the form of a note, which I shall transcribe for your edification. Sir, please, if you would, give something. You must get an order. In store is worth. The moccasin. Porcupine quill on et. One dollars, four yard. This curious billet was the production of the Hunter's eldest son, and is meant to imitate that if I would buy the moccasins the price was one dollar, or an order on one of the stores, for four yards of calico. For so the squaw interpreted its meaning. The order for four yards of printed cotton was delivered over to Mrs. Peter, who carefully pinned it within the folds of her blanket, and departed well satisfied with the payment. And this reminds me of our visit to the Indian's camp last week. Feeling some desire to see these singular people in their winter encampment, I expressed my wish to S., who happens to be a grand favourite with the old Hunter and his family. As a mark of distinction they have bestowed on him the title of Chibawa, the name of their tribe. He was delighted with the opportunity of doing the honours of the Indian wigwam, and it was agreed that he, with some of his brothers and sisters-in-law, who happened to be on a visit at his house, should come and drink tea with us, and accompany us to the camp in the woods. A merry party we were, that sallied forth that evening, into the glorious starlight. The snow sparkled, with a thousand diamonds on its frozen surface, over which we bounded, with hearts as light as hearts could be, in this careful wood. And truly never did I look upon a lovelier sight than the woods presented. There had been a heavy fall of snow the preceding day, owing to the extreme stillness of the air, not a particle of it, had been shaken from the trees. The evergreens were bending beneath their brilliant burden. Every twig, every leaf and spray was covered, and some of the weak saplings actually bowed down to the earth with the weight of the snow, forming the most lovely and fanciful bowers and arcades across our path. As you looked up towards the tops of the trees, the snowy branches seen against the deep blue sky formed a silvery veil, through which the bright stars were gleaming with a chastened brilliancy. I was always an admirer of a snowy landscape, but neither in this country nor at home did I ever see anything so surpassingly lovely as the forest appeared that night. Leaving the broad road, we struck into a bypass, deep-tracked by the Indians, and soon perceived the wigwam by the red smoke that issued from the open basket-work top of the little hut. This is first formed with light poles, planted round so as to enclose a circle of ten or twelve feet in diameter. Between these poles are drawn large sheets of birch bark both within and without, leaving an opening of the bare poles at the top so as to form an outlet for the smoke. The outer walls were also banked up with snow, so as to exclude the air entirely from beneath. Some of our party, who were younger and lighter a foot, then we sober married folks, ran on before, so that when the blanket that served the purpose of a door was unfastened we found a motley group of the dark skins and the pale faces reposing on the blankets and skins that were spread round the walls of the wigwam. The swarthy complexions, shaggy black hair, and singular costume of the Indians formed a striking contrast with the fair-faced Europeans that were mingled with them, seen as they were by the red and fitful glare of the wood-fire that occupied the centre of the circle. The deer-hounds lay stretched in indolent enjoyment, close to the embers, while three or four dark-skinned little urchins were playing with each other or angrily screaming out their indignation against the apish tricks of the hunchback, my old acquaintance, MacEwan. That Indian flibbery gibbet, whose delight appeared to be in teasing and tormenting the little papooses, casting as he did so side-long glances of impish glee at the guests. While as quick as thought his features assumed an impenetrable gravity when the eyes of his father or the squaws seemed directed towards his tricks. There was a slight bustle among the party when we entered one by one through the low blanket doorway. The merry laugh rang round among our friends, which was echoed by more than one of the Indian men, and joined by the peculiar half-laugh or chuckle of the squaws. Chippewa was directed to a post of honour beside the Hunter Peter, and Squaw Peter with an air of great good humour made room for me on a corner of her own blanket, to effect which two papooses and a hound were sent lamenting to the neighbourhood of the hunchback MacEwan. The most attractive persons in the wigwam were two Indian girls, one about eighteen, Jane, the Hunter's eldest daughter, and her cousin Margaret. I was greatly struck with the beauty of Jane. Her features were positively fine, and though of gypsy darkness the tint of vermilion on her cheek and lip rendered it, if not beautiful, very attractive. Her hair, which was of a jetty blackness, was soft and shining, and was neatly folded over her forehead, not hanging loose and disorderly in shaggy masses, as is generally the case with the squaws. Jane was evidently aware of her superior charms, and may be considered as an Indian belle. By the peculiar care she displayed in the arrangement of the black cloth mantle, bound with scarlet, that was gracefully wrapped over one shoulder, and fastened at her left side with a gilt brooch. Margaret was younger, of lower stature, and though lively and rather pretty, yet wanted the quiet dignity of her cousin. She had more of the squaw in face and figure. The two girls occupied a blanket by themselves, and were busily engaged in working some most elegant sheaths of deerskin, richly wrought over with coloured quills and beads. They kept the beads and quills in a small tin baking pan on their knees. But my old squaw, as I always call Mrs. Peter, held her porcupine quills in her mouth, and the fine dried sinews of the deer, which they make use of instead of thread, in work of this sort, in her bosom. On my expressing a desire to have some of the porcupine quills she gave me a few of different colour that she was working a pair of moccasins with, but signified that she wanted bead to work moccasin, by which I understood I was to give some in exchange for the quills. Indians never give since they have learned to trade with white men. She was greatly delighted with the praises I bestowed on Jane. She told me Jane was soon to marry the young Indian who sat on one side of her, in all the pride of a new blanket coat, red sash, embroidered powder pouch, and great gilt clasps to the collar of his coat, which looked as warm and as white as newly washed fleece. The old squaw evidently felt proud of the young couple, as she gazed on them, and often repeated with a good tempered laugh, Jane's husband, married by and by. We had so often listened with pleasure to the Indians singing their hymns of a Sunday night that I requested some of them to sing to us. The old hunter nodded ascent, and, without removing his pipe, with the gravity and phlegm of a Dutchman, issued his commands, which were as instantly obeyed by the younger part of the community, and a chorus of rich voices filled the little hut with a melody that thrilled to our very hearts. The hymn was sung in the Indian tongue, a language that is peculiarly sweet and soft in its cadences, and seems to be composed with many vowels. I could not but notice the modest air of the girls, as if anxious to avoid observation that they felt was attracted by their sweet voices. They turned away from the gaze of the strangers, facing each other, and bending their heads down over the work they still held in their hands. The attitude which is that of the Eastern nations, the dress, dark hair and eyes, the olive complexion, heightened colour, and meek expression of face, would have formed a study for the painter. I wish you could have witnessed the scene. I think you would not easily have forgotten it. I was pleased with the air of deep reverence that sat on the faces of the elders of the Indian family, as they listened to the voices of their children, singing praise and glory to the God and Saviour they had learned to fear and love. The Indians seem most tender parents. It is pleasing to see the affectionate manner in which they treat their young children, fondly and gently caressing them with eyes overflowing and looks of love. During the singing each papoose crept the feet of its respective father and mother, and those that were too young to join their voices to the little choir remained quite silent to the hymn was at an end. One little girl, a fat, brown, roly-poly of three years old, beat time on her father's knee, and from time to time timed in her infant voice, she evidently possessed a fine ear and a natural taste for music. I was at a loss to conceive where the Indians kept their stores, clothes and other movables, the wigwam being so small that there seemed no room for anything besides themselves and their hounds. Their ingenuity, however, supplied the want of room, and I soon discovered a plan that answered all the purposes of closets, bags, boxes, etc. The inner lining of birch bark being drawn between the poles so as to form hollow pouches all round. In these pouches were stowed their goods. One set held their stock of dried deer's flesh. Another dried fish. A third contained some flat cakes, which I have been told they bake in a way peculiar to themselves, with hot ashes over and under. For my part I think they must be far from palatable, so seasoned. Their dressed skins, clothes, materials for the various toys, such as beads, quills, bits of cloth, silk, and a thousand other miscellaneous articles occupied the rest of these reservoirs. Though open for a considerable space at the top, the interior of the wigwam was so hot I could scarcely breathe, and was constrained to throw off all my wrappings during the time we stayed. Before we went away the hunter insisted on showing us a game, which was something after the manner of our cup and ball, only more complicated, and requires more slight of hand. The Indians seemed evidently well pleased at our want of adroitness. They also showed us another game, which was a little like nine pins. Only the number of sticks stuck in the ground was greater. I was unable to stay, to see the little rows of sticks knocked out, as the heat of the wigwam oppressed me almost to suffocation. I was glad to feel myself once more breathing the pure air. In any other climate one would scarcely have undergone such sudden extremes of temperature without catching a severe cold. But fortunately that distressing complaint, catchy-la-cold, as the Frenchman termed it, is not so prevalent in Canada as at home. Some twenty years ago, while feeling of dread still existed in the minds of the British settlers towards the Indians, from the remembrances of atrocities committed during the War of Independence, our poor woman, the widow of a settler who occupied a farm in one of the then but thinly settled townships back of the Ontario, was alarmed by the sudden appearance of an Indian within the walls of her law-cut. He had entered so slightly that it was not till he planted himself before the blazing fire that he was perceived by the frightened widow and her little ones who retreated trembling with ill-concealed terror to the furthest corner of the room. Without seeming to notice the dismay which his appearance had excited, the Indian proceeded to disencomber himself from his hunting accruements. He then unfastened his wet moccasins which he hung up to dry, plainly imitating his design was to pass the night beneath their roof, it being nearly dark and snowing heavily. Scarcely daring to draw an audible breath, the little group watched the movements of their unwelcome guest. Imagine their horror when they beheld him take from his girdle a hunting-knife and deliberately proceed to try its edge. After this his tomahawk and rifle underwent a similar examination. The despair of the horror-stricken mother was now approaching a climax. She already beheld an idea the frightful mangled corpses of her murdered children upon that hearth which had so often been the scene of their innocent gambles. Instinctively she clasped the two youngest to her breast at a forward movement of the Indian. With streaming eyes she was about to throw herself at his feet as he advanced towards her with the dreaded weapons in his hands and implored his mercy for herself and her babes. What then was her surprise and joy when he gently laid the rifle, knife, and tomahawk beside her, signifying by this action that she had nothing to fear at his hands? Note. It is almost an invariable custom now for the Indians on entering a dwelling-house to leave all their weapons, as rife, tomahawk, etc., outside the door, even if the weather be ever so wet, as they consider it unpolite, to enter a family dwelling armed. A reprieve to a condemned criminal at the moment previous to his execution was not more welcome than this action of the Indian to the poor widow. Eager to prove her confidence and gratitude at the same time, she hastened to prepare food for the refreshment of the now no longer dreaded guest, and assisted by the eldest of her children, put clean sheets and the best blankets on her own bed, which she joyfully devoted to the accommodation of the stranger. An expressive, hue, hue, was the only reply to this act of hospitality. But when he was to take possession of his luxurious couch, he seemed sorely puzzled. It was evident that the Indian had never seen and certainly never reposed on an European bed. After a mute examination of the bed-clothes for some minutes, with a satisfied laugh, he sprang upon the bed, and curling himself up like a dog, in a few minutes was sound asleep. By dawn of day the Indian had departed. But whenever he came on the hunting grounds in the neighbourhood of the widow, she was sure to see him. The children no longer terrified at his swarthy countenance and warlike weapons would gather round his knees, admire the feathered pouch that contained his shot, finger the beautiful embroidered sheath that held the hunting-knife, or the finely worked moccasins and leggings, whilst he would pat their heads and bestow upon them an equal share of caresses with his deer-hounds. Such was the story related to me by a young missionary. I thought it might prove, not uninteresting, as a trait of character of one of these singular people. Chiboya, for that was the name of the Indian, was one of the Chibawas of Rice Lake, most of whom are now converts to Christianity, and making considerable advancement in civilization and knowledge of agriculture. Hunting and fishing, however, appear to be their favourite pursuits. For these they leave the comfortable houses at the Indian villages and return at stated times to their forest haunts. I believe it is generally considered that their numbers are diminishing, and some tribes have become nearly if not totally extinct in the Canadas. The race is slowly passing away from the face of the earth, or mingling by degrees with the colonists, till a few centuries hence even the names of their tribes will scarcely remain to tell that they once existed. Note! It is stated that the North West Company had a census of all the tribes, and that the whole Indian population of that immense continent did not now exceed one hundred thousand souls. In a parliamentary document of 1834 the Indians of Lower Canada are estimated at three thousand four hundred and thirty-seven, and those of Upper Canada at thirteen thousand seven hundred, which latter number is stated to include those on the shores of Lake Huron and to the westward editor. When next you send a box or parcel let me have a few good tracks and hymn-books as they prize a gift of this sort extremely. I send you a hymn, the one they sang to us in the wigwam. It is the Indian translation, and written by the hunter Peter's eldest son. He was delighted when I told him I wanted him to copy it for me, that I might send it across the seas to my own country, that English people might see how well Indians could write. The hunchback McEwen has made me a miniature canoe of Birchbark which I send. He will prize it as a curiosity and token of remembrance. The red and black squirrelskins are for Jane, the feather-fans and papers of feathers for Sarah. Tell the latter the next time I send a pack at home she will have specimens fit for stuffing of our splendid red bird, which I am sure is the Virginian Nightingale. It comes in May or April and leaves us late in the summer. It exactly corresponds to a stuffed Virginian Nightingale that I saw in a fine collection of American birds. The blue bird is equally lovely and migrates much about the same time. The plumage is of a celestial blue, but I have never seen one otherwise than upon the wing, so cannot describe it minutely. The cross-bills are very pretty, the male and female quite opposite in color, one having a lovely mixture of scarlet and orange on the breast and back, shading into greenish olive and brown, the other more like our yellow hammer, only it is not quite so bright in color, though much softer and more innocent looking. They come to our windows and doors in the winter, as familiarly as your robins. During the winter most of our birds depart, even the hollow tapping of the red-headed and small speckled gray and white woodpecker ceases to be heard. The sharp chittering of the squirrel, too, is seldomer distinguished, and silence, awful and unbroken silence, reigns in the forest during the season of mid-winter. I had well nigh forgotten my little favorites, a species of the titmos that does not entirely forsake us. Of a bright, warm, sunny day we see flocks of these tiny birds swinging among the feathery sprigs of the hemlocks or shrubby pines on the plains or in the forest, and many a time have I stayed my steps to watch their playful frolics and listen to their gay warbling. I am not quite certain, but I think this is the same little bird that is known among the natives by the same name of titabibi. Its note, though weak, and with a few changes, is not unpleasing, and we prize it from being almost the only bird that sings during the winter. I had heard much of the snow-bunting, but never had seen it till the other day, and then not near enough to mark its form or colors. The day was one of uncommon brilliancy, the sky cloudless, and the air almost warm, when, looking towards the lake, I was surprised by the appearance of one of the pine trees near the shore. It seemed as if covered with stars of silver that twinkled and sparkled against the blue sky. I was so charmed by the novelty that I ran out to observe them nearer, when, to my surprise, my stars all took flight to another tree, where, by the constant waving and fluttering of their small white wings against the sunlight, they produced the beautiful effect that had at first attracted my observation. Soon all the pines, within sight of the window, were illuminated by these lovely creatures. About midday they went away, and I have seen them but once since. They never lit on the ground, or any other low tree or bow, for me to examine them nearer. Of our singing-birds, the robin, the blackbird, and a tiny bird, like our common ren, are those I am most intimate with. The Canadian robin is much larger than our dear robin at home. He is too coarse, and a large bird to realize the idea of our little favourite, the household bird with the red stomacher, as he is called by Bishop Kerry, in a sonnet addressed to Elizabeth, the daughter of James I, on her marriage with the unfortunate Frederick Prince Palantine. The song of the Canadian robin is by no means despicable. Its notes are clear, sweet, and various. It possesses the same, cheerful, lively character that distinguishes the carol of its name's sake. But the general habits of the bird are very dissimilar. The Canadian robin is less sociable with man, but more so with his own species. They assemble and flocks soon after the breeding season is over, and appear very amicable one to another. But seldom, if ever, approach very near to our dwelling. The breast is of a pinkish salmon colour, the head black, the back of a sort of bluish steel or slate colour. In size there is big as a thrush. The blackbird is perhaps our best songster, according to my taste, full as fine as our English blackbird, and much handsomer in its plumage, which is a glossy, changeable greenish black. The upper part of the wing of the male bird, of full growth, is of a lively orange. This is not apparent in the younger birds, nor in the female, which is slightly speckled. Towards the middle of the summer, when the grain begins to ripen, these birds assemble in large flocks. The management of the marauding parties appears to be superintended by the elders of the family, when they are about to descend upon a field of oats or wheat, two or three mounds, guard as sentinels, and on the approach of danger cry, Kik, kik, kik! This precaution seems a work of super-arrogation, as they are so saucy that they will hardly be frightened away, and if they rise it is only to a light on the same field at a little distance, or fly up to the trees, where their look-out posts are. They have a peculiar melancholy call-nota-times, which sounds exactly like the sudden twang of a harp-string, vibrating for a second or two on the ear. This I am inclined to think they use to collect their distant comrades, as I have never observed it when they are all in full assembly, but when a few are sitting in some tree near the lake's edge. I have called them the harpers from this peculiar note. I shall tire you with my ornithological sketches, but must enumerate two or three more birds. The bald eagle frequently flies over our clearing. It has a dark body and snow-white head. It is sometimes troublesome to the poultry-yards. Those we have seen have disdained such low game and soared majestically away across the lake. The fish-hawk we occasionally see skimming the surface of the water, and it is regarded as an enemy by those who take delight in spearing fish upon the lake. Then we have the night, or mosquito-hawk, which may be seen in the air pursuing the insect tribe in the higher regions, whilst hundreds of great dragonflies pursue them below. Notwithstanding their assistance we are bitten mercilessly by those summer pasts, the mosquitoes and blackflies. The red-headed woodpecker is very splendid, the head and neck being of a rich crimson. The back, wings, and breast are divided between the most snowy white and jetty black. The incessant tapping of the woodpeckers and the discordant shriek of the blue jay are heard from sunrise to sunset as soon as the spring is fairly set in. I found a little family of woodpeckers last spring comfortably nested in an old pine between the bark and the trunk of the tree, where the former had started away and left a hollow space in which the old birds had built a soft but careless sort of nest. The little creatures seemed very happy poking their funny bare heads out to greet the old ones who were knocking away at the old stumps in their neighbourhood to supply their cravings as busy as so many carpenters at work. A very curious bird's nest was given me by one of our choppers. It was woven over a fort spray so that it had all the appearance of having been sown to the bow with grey thread. The nest was only secured at the two sides that formed the angle, but so strong was it fastened that it seemed to resist any weight or pressure of a moderate kind. It was composed of the fibres of the basswood bark, which are very thready and may be drawn to great fineness. On the whole it was a curious specimen of the ingenuity of these admirable little architects. I could not discover the builder, but rather suspect the nest to have belonged to my protégé, the little winter titmose that I told you of. The nest of the Canadian robin which I discovered while seeking for a hand's nest in a bush-heap, just at the further edge of the clearing, is very much like our home-robins, allowing something for difference of size in the bird and in the material. The eggs, five in number, were deep blue. Before I quit the subject of birds I must recall to your remembrance the little houses that the Americans build for the swallow. I have since found out, one of the great reasons for cherishing this useful bird. It appears that a most rooted antipathy exists between this species and the hawk tribe, and no hawk will abide their neighbourhood, as they pursue them for miles, annoying them in every possible way. Haunting the hawk, like its evil genius, it is most singular that so small a creature should thus overcome one that is the formidable enemy of so many a feathered race. I should have been somewhat sceptical on the subject had I not myself been an eyewitness to the fact. I was looking out of my window one bright summer day, when I noticed a hawk of a large description flying heavily along the lake, uttering cries of distress. Within a yard or two of it was a small, in the distance it appeared to me very small, bird pursuing it closely, and also screaming. I watched this strange pair till the pine wood hid them from my sight, and I often marvelled at the circumstance till a very intelligent French-Canadian traveller happened to name the fact, and said so great was the value placed on these birds that they had been sold at high prices to be sent to different parts of the province. They never forsake their old haunts when once naturalized, the same pairs constantly returning year after year to their old house. The singular fact of these swallows driving the hawk from his haunts is so worthy of attention, as it is well authenticated, and adds one more to the many interesting and surprising anecdotes recorded by naturalists of the sagacity and instinct of these birds. I have, however, scribbled so many sheets that I fear my long letter must weary you. Letter 14 By Catherine Parr Trail Letter 14 Utility of Botanical Knowledge July 13, 1834 Our winter broke up unusually early this year. By the end of February the ground was quite free from snow, and the weather continued all through March mild and pleasant, though not so warm as the preceding year, and certainly more variable. By the last week in April, and the beginning of May, the forest trees had all burst into leaf, with a brilliancy of green that was exquisitely lovely. On the 14th, 15th, and 16th of May the air became suddenly cold, with sharp winds from the northwest, and heavy storms of snow that nipped the young buds, and destroyed many of the early sown vegetable seeds. Fortunately for us we were behind with ours, which was very well as it happened. Our woods and clearings are now full of beautiful flowers. You will be able to form some idea of them from the dried specimens that I send you. You will recognize among them many of the cherished pets of our gardens and greenhouses, which are here flung carelessly from nature's lavish hand among our woods and wilds. How often do I wish you were beside me in my rambles among the woods and clearings? You would be so delighted in searching out the floral treasures of the place. Deeply do I now regret having so idly neglected your kind offers, while at home, of instructing me in flower-painting. You often told me the time would come when I should have caused to regret neglecting the golden opportunity before me. You proved a true prophetess, for I daily lament that I cannot make faithful representations of the flowers of my adopted country or understand, as you would, their botanical arrangement. With some few I have made myself acquainted, but of hardly confidence in my scanty stock of knowledge to venture on scientific descriptions, when I feel conscious that a blunder would be easily detected and expose me to ridicule and contempt for an assumption of knowledge that I did not possess. The only botanical work I have at my command is Persia's North America flora, from which I have obtained some information, but must confess it is tiresome blundering out Latin descriptions to one who knows nothing of Latin beyond what she derives through a knowledge of Italian. I have made out a list of the plants most worthy of attention near us. There are many others in the township that I am a stranger to. Some there are, with whose names I am unacquainted. I subjoin a slight sketch, not with my pencil but my pen, of those flowers that pleased me particularly, or that possessed any remarkable qualities. The same plants do not grow on cleared land that formerly occupy the same spot when it was covered with forest trees. A distinct class of vegetation makes its appearance as soon as the fire has passed over the ground. The same thing may be remarked with regard to the change that takes place among our forests. As one generation falls and decays, new ones of a different character spring up in their places. This is illustrated in the circumstance of the resinous substance called fat pine being usually found in places where the living pine is least abundant, and where the ground is occupied by oak, ash, buck, maple, and basswood. The fire-weed, a species of tall thistle, of rank and unpleasant scent, is the first plant that appears when the ground has been freed from timbers by fire. If a piece of land lies untilled the first summer after it's being chopped, the following spring shows you a smothering crop of this vile weed. The next plant you notice is the sumac, with its downy stalks and head of deep crimson velvety flowers, forming an upright obtuse bunch at the extremity of the branches. The leaves turn scarlet towards the latter end of the summer. This shrub, though really very ornamental, is regarded as a great pest in old clearings where the roots run and send up suckers in abundance. The raspberry and wild gooseberry are next seen, and thousands of strawberry plants of different varieties carpet the ground and mingle with the grasses of the pastures. I have been obliged this spring to root out with remorseless hand hundreds of sasperilla plants and also the celebrated ginseng, which grows abundantly in our woods. It used formerly to be an article of export to China from the States, the root being held in high estimation by the Chinese. Last week I noticed a succulent plant that made its appearance on a dry sandy path in my garden. It seemed to me a variety of the hour-blowing mesmabrianthium. It has increased so rapidly that it already covers a large space. The branches converging from the center of the plant and sending forth shoots from every joint. The leaves are rather small, three-sided and pointed, thick and juicy, yielding a green liquor when bruised like the common sedums. The stalks are thick and round, of a bright red and trail along the ground. The leaves spring from each joint, and with them a constant succession of yellow starry flowers that close in an hour or so from the time they first unfold. I shall send you some of the seed of this plant, as I perceive a number of little green pods that look like buds, but which, on opening, prove to be the seed-vessels. This plant covers the earth like a thick mat, and I am told is rather troublesome, where it likes the soil. I regret that among my dried plants I could not preserve some specimens of our superb waterlilies and irises, but they were too large and too juicy to dry well. As I cannot send you my favorites I must describe them to you. The first, then, is a magnificent waterlily that I have called by way of distinction the queen of the lakes, for she sits a crown upon the waters. This magnificent flower is about the size of a moderately large delia. It is double to the heart every row of petals, diminishing by degrees in size, and gradually deepening in tint from the purest white to the brightest lemon-color. The buds are very lovely, and may be seen below the surface of the water, in different stages of forwardness from the closely-folded bud, wrapped in its olive-green calyx, to the half-blown flower, ready to emerge from its watery prison, and in all its virgin beauty expand its snowy blossom to the sun and genial air. Nor is the beauty of the flower its sole attraction. When unfolded it gives out a rich perfume, not unlike the smell of fresh lemons. The leaves are also worthy of attention. At first they are of a fine dark green. But as the flower decays the leaf changes its hue to a vivid crimson, where a large bed of these lilies grow closely together they give quite a sanguine appearance to the waters, that is distinguishable at some distance. The yellow species of this plant is also very handsome, though it wants the silken texture and delicate color of the former. I call this the water-king. The flower presents a golden-colored cup, the concave petals of which are clouded in the center with a dark reddish-brown that forms a striking contrast to the gay anthers, which are very numerous, and turn back from the center of the flower, falling like fringes of gold, one over the other, in successive rows till they fill up the hollow flower-cup. The shallows of our lake abound with a variety of elegant aquatic plants. I know not a more lovely sight than one of these floating gardens. Here you shall behold, near the shore, a bed of azure, fluidly, from the palest pearl-color varying to the darkest purple. Near in shore, in the shallowest water, the rose-colored persaqueria sends up its beautiful spikes trailing below the surface. You see red stalks and smooth dark green leaves, veined underneath with rosy red. It is a very charming variety of this beautiful species of plants. Then a bed of my favorite white lilies, all in full bloom, floating on the water, with their double flowers expanding to the sun. Near these and rising in stately pride, a tall plant, with dark green, spear-shaped leaves, and thick spike of bright blue flowers is seen. I cannot discover the name of this very grand-looking flower, and I neglect to examine its botanical construction, so I can give you no clue by which to discover its name or species. Our rice-beds are far from being unworthy of admiration. Seeing from a distance they look like low-green islands on the lakes. On passing through one of these rice-beds when the rice is in flower, it has a beautiful appearance, with its broad, grassy leaves, and light-waving spikes, garnished with pale yellow-green blossoms, delicately shaded with reddish-purple, from beneath which fall three elegant, straw-colored anthers, which move with every breath of air, or slightest motion of the waters. I gathered several spikes when only just opened, but the tiresome things fell to pieces directly they became dry. Next summer I will make another attempt at preserving them, and it may be with better success. The low shore of the lake is a complete shrubbery. We have a very pretty St. John's wort with handsome yellow flowers. The white and pink spiral fruitex also abounds with some exquisite, upright honeysuckles, shrubby plants about three feet in height. The blossoms grow in pairs, or by fours, and hang beneath the light-green leaves, elegant trumpet-shaped flowers of a delicate greenish-white which are succeeded by ruby-colored berries. On gathering a branch of this plant you cannot but be struck with the elegant arrangement of the flowers along the under-part of the stalks. The two blossoms are connected at the nectaree of each in a singular manner. The Americans call this honeysuckle twinflower. I have seen some of the flowers of this plant pale pink. On the whole it is one of the most ornamental shrubs we have. I transplanted some young trees into my garden last spring. They promise to live and do well. I do not find any description of this shrub in precious flora, but know it to be a species of honeysuckle from the class and order, the shape and color of the leaves, the stalks, the trumpet- shaped blossoms, and the fruit all bearing a resemblance to our honeysuckles in some degree. There is a tall upright bush bearing large yellow trumpet-shaped flowers, springing from the extremity of its branches. The involucrum forms a boat-shaped cup that encircles the flowers from which they seem to spring, something after the manner of the scarlet trumpet-honeysuckle. The leaves and blossoms of this plant are coarse, and by no means to compare to the former. We have a great variety of curious orcises. Some brown and yellow, others pale, flesh-colored, striped with crimson. There is one species grows to the height of two feet, bearing long spikes of pale purple flowers, a white one with most fragrant smell, and a delicious pink one with round head of blossoms, finely fringed like the water-pinks that grow in our marshes. This is a very pretty flower and grows in the beaver meadows. Last autumn I observed in the pine wood near us a very curious plant. It came up with naked brown stems, branching off like some miniature tree. The stalks of this plant were brown, slightly freckled, and beset with little knobs. I watched the progress of maturity in this strange plant with some degree of interest. Towards the later end of October the little knobs which consisted of two angular hard cases, not unlike when fully open, to a boat in shape, burst asunder and displayed a pale, straw-colored, chafy substance that resembled fine saw-dust. These must have been the anthers, but they bore more resemblance to seeds. This singular flower would have borne examination with a microscope. One peculiarity that I observed was that on pulling up a plant with its roots I found the blossoms open underground, springing out from the lowest part of the flower stems, and just as far advanced to maturity, as those that grew on the upper stalks, accepting that they were somewhat blanched from being covered up from the air. I can find no description of this plant nor any person but myself seems to have taken notice of it. This specimen I had, on being dried, became so brittle that it fell to pieces. I have promised to collect some of the most singular of our native flowers for one of the professors of Botany in the Edinburgh University. We have a very handsome plant that bears the closest affinity to our potato in its floral construction. It grows to the height of two or three feet in favourable situations, and sends up many branches. The blossoms are large, purely white, freckled near the bottom of the corolla, with brownish yellow spots. The corolla is undivided. This is evidently the same plant as the cultivated potato, though it does not appear to form apples at the root. The fruit is very handsome, egg-shaped, of a beautiful apricot colour when ripe, and of a shining, tempting appearance. The smell, however, betrays its poisonous nature. On opening one of the fruits you find it consists of a soft pulp, filled with shining black seeds. The plant continues in blossom from June to the first frosts wither the leaves. It is far less coarse than the potato. The flower, when full blown, is about the size of a half-crown, and quite flat. I think it is what you call solver-shaped. It delights in light, loamy soil, growing on the upturned roots of fallen trees, where the ground is inclined to be sandy. I have never seen this plant elsewhere than on our own fallow. The Hepitica is the first flower of the Canadian spring. It gladdens us with its tints of azure, pink and white, early in April. Soon after the snows have melted from the earth. The Canadians call it snow-flower from its coming so soon after the snow disappears. We see its gay tufts of flowers in the open clearings and the deep recesses of the forests. Its leaves are also an enduring ornament through the open months of the year. You see them on every grassy mound and mossy root. The shades of blue are very various and delicate. The white anthers forming a lovely contrast with the blue petals. The woodcress, or as it is called by some, ginger-cress, is a pretty white cruciform flower. It is highly aromatic in flavor. The root is white and fleshy, having the pungency of horseradish. The leaves are of a sad green, sharply notched and divided in three lobes. The leaves of some of them are slightly variegated. The plant delights in rich moist vegetable mold, especially on low and slightly swampy ground. The flower stock is sometimes naked, sometimes leafed, and is crowned with a loose spike of white cruciform flowers. There is a crest that grows in pretty green tufts at the bottom of the waters in the creeks and small rivulets. It is more delicate and agreeable in flavor than any of the landcresses. The leaves are of a pale, tender green, winged and slender. The plant looks like a green cushion at the bottom of the water. The flowers are yellow, cruciform, and insignificant. It makes a very acceptable salad in early spring and at the fall of the year. There are also several species of landcress and plants resembling some of the cabbage tribes that might be used as spring vegetables. There are several species of spinach, one known here by the name of lamb's quarter, that grows in great profusion about our garden, and in rich soil rises to two feet and is very luxuriant in its foliage. The leaves are covered with a white rough powder. The top shoots and tender parts of this vegetable are boiled with port, and in place of a more delicate poturb is very useful. Then we have the Indian turnip. This is a very handsome arum, the root of which resembles the capava, I am told, when boiled. The leaves of this arum are handsome, slightly tinged with purple. The space is of a lively green, striped with purple. The Indians use the root as a medicine, and also as an esculent. It is often eaten by the settlers as a vegetable, but I have never tasted it myself. Pursh calls this species arum artropurepureum. I must not pass over one of our greatest ornaments, the strawberry blight, strawberry-bearing spinach, or Indian strawberry, as it is variously named. This singular plant throws out many branches from one stem. These are garnished with handsome leaves resembling an appearance, our long-leaved garden spinach. The finest of this plant is of a bright crimson, pulpy like the strawberry, and containing a number of purple seeds, partially embedded in the surface, after the same manner as the strawberry. The fruit grows close to the stalk, completely surrounding it, and forming a long spike of the richest crimson berries. I have gathered branches a foot in length, closely covered with the beautiful-looking fruit, and have regretted that it was so insipid in its flavor as to make it un-eatable. On the banks of creeks, and in rich ground, it grows most luxuriously, one root sending up twenty or thirty branches, drooping with the weight of their magnificent burden. As the middle and superior stems ripen and decay, the lateral ones come on, presenting a constant succession of fruit from July till the frost, nip them off in September. The Indians use the juice of this plant as a dye, and are said to eat the berries. It is often made use of as a substitute for red ink, but it is liable to fade unless mingled with alum. A friend of mine told me she has been induced to cross a letter she was sending to her relative in England with this strawberry ink, but not having taken the precaution to fix the color, when the anxiously expected epistle arrived, one half of it proved quite unintelligible, the colors having faded nearly to white, so that instead of affording satisfaction it proved only a source of vexation and embarrassment to the reader, and of mortification to the writer. The blood-root sanguinaria, or cocoon, as it is termed by some of the native tribes, is worthy of attention from the root to the flower. As soon as the sun of April has warmed the earth and loosened it from its frozen bonds, you may distinguish a number of purely white buds, elevated on a naked foot-stock, and partially enfolded in a handsome, vine-shaped leaf, of a pale bluish green, curiously veined on the underside with pale orange. The leaf springs singly from a thick, juicy fibrous root, which, on being broken, emits a quantity of liquor from its pores of a bright orange scarlet color. This juice is used by the Indians as a dye, and also in the cure of rheumatic and cutaneous complaints. The flower of the sanguinaria resemble the white crocus very closely. When it first comes up the bud is supported by the leaf, and is folded together with it. The flower, however, soon elevates itself above its protector, while the leaf, having performed its duty of guardian to the tender bud, expands to its full size. A rich, black vegetable mold at the edges of the clearings seems the favorite soil for this plant. The scarlet Columbine is another of my favorite flowers. It is bright red with yellow linings to the tubes. The nectaries are more elongated than the garden Columbines, and form a sort of mural crown, surmounted with little balls at the tips. A tall, graceful plant, with its brilliant waving blossoms, is this Columbine. It grows both in the sunshine and the shade, not perhaps in deep shady woods, but where the underbrush has been removed by the running of the fire, or the axe of the chopper. It seems even to flourish in poor stony soils, and may be found near every dwelling. The feathered Columbine delights in moist, open swamps, and the banks of rivulets. It grows to the height of three and even four or five feet, and is very ornamental. Of violets we have every variety of color, size, and shape, lacking only the delightful viola odorata of our home woodlands. Yet I know not why we should quarrel with these meek daughters of the spring, because they want the fragrance of their more favoured sisters. Many of your wood violets, though very beautiful, are also devoid of scent. Here variety of color ought to make some amends for want of perfume. We have violets of every shade of blue, some veined with purple, others shaded with darker blue. We have the delicate white, penciled with purple, the bright, brimstone colored with black veinings, the pale primrose with dark blue veines, the two latter are remarkable for the luxuriance and size of the leaves. The flowers spring in bunches, several from each joint, and are succeeded by large capsules covered with thick white cottony down. There is a species of violet that grows in the woods, the leaves of which are exceedingly large, so are the seed-vessels, but the flower is so small and insignificant that it is only to be observed by a close examination of the plant. This has given rise to the vulgar belief that it blooms under ground. The flowers are a pale greenish-yellow. Bryant's beautiful palm of the yellow violet is descriptive of the first mentioned violet. There is an elegant viola tricolor that blooms in the autumn. It is the size of a small heart's ease, and is pure white, pale purple, and lilac. The upper petals are white, the lower lip purple, and the side wings are reddish lilac. I was struck with the elegance of this rare flower on a journey to Peterborough on my way to Coburg. I was unable to preserve the specimens and have not travelled that road since. The flowers grew among wild clover on the open side of the road. The leaves were small, roundish, and of a dark, sad green. Of the tall shrubby asters we have several beautiful varieties with large pale blue lilac or white flowers. Others with very small white flowers and crimson anthers which look like tufts of red down, spangled with gold dust. These anthers have a very pretty effect, contrasted with the white starry petals. There is one variety of the tall asters that I have seen on the planes. It has a flower about the size of a sixpence of a soft pearly tint of blue with brown anthers. This plant grows very tall and branches from the parent stem in many graceful, flowery boughs. The leaves of this species are of a purple red on the underside and inclining to heart shape. The leaves and stalks are hairy. I am not afraid of wearying you with my floral sketches. I have yet many to describe. Among these are those elegant little evergreens that abound in this country under the name of winter greens, of which there are three or four remarkable for beauty of foliage, flower, and fruit. One of these winter greens that abounds in our pine woods is extremely beautiful. Its seldom exceeds six inches in height. The leaves are a bright shining green of a long narrow oval, delicately notched like the edges of a rose leaf, and the plant emerges from beneath the snow in the early part of the year, as soon as the first thaw takes place, as fresh and verdant as before they were covered up. It seems to be a shy blossomer. I have never seen specimens of the flower in bloom, but twice. These I carefully preserve for you. But the dried plant will afford but an imperfect idea of the original. You always called, you know, your dried specimen corpses of a plant, and said that when well painted their representations were far more like themselves. The flower stock rise two or three inches from the center of the plant, and is crowned with round, crimson buds and blossoms, consisting of five petals. Deepening from the pale is pink to the brightish blush color. The stigma is of an emerald greenness, forming a slightly ribbed turban in the center, around which are disposed ten stamens of an amethyst color. In short, this is one of the gems of the floral world, and might aptly become paired to an emerald ring set round with amethysts. The contrast of colors in this flower is exceedingly pleasing, and the crimson buds and shining evergreen leaves are scarcely less to be admired than the flower. Itself it would be considered a great acquisition to your collection of American shrubs, but I doubt if it would flourish when removed from the shade of the pine woods. This plant appears to be the Chimaphila corimposa, or wintergreen, described by Perch, with some trifling variation in the color of the petals. Another of our wintergreens grows in abundance on the rice-league plains. The plant does not exceed four inches. The flowers are in little loose bunches, pale greenish-white, in shape like the blossom of the Arbutus. The berries are bright scarlet, and are known by the name of winterberry and partridgeberry. This must be goltheria procumbens. But a more beautiful little evergreen of the same species is to be found in our cedar swamps under the name of pigeonberry. It resembles the Arbutus in leaf and flower more closely than the former plant. The scarlet berry is inserted in a scarlet cup or receptacle, divided at the edge in five points. It is fleshy, seeming to partake, of the same nature as the fruit. The blossoms of this elegant little shrub, like the Arbutus, of which it looks like the miniature, appear in drooping bunches at the same time the ripened berry of the former year, is in perfection. This circumstance adds not a little to the charm of the plant. If I mistake not, this is the goltheria shallon, which purge likens to the Arbutus. This is also one of our wintergreens. There is another pretty trailing plant with delicate little funnel-shaped flowers, and a profusion of small, dark green round buds, slightly variegated and bright red berries, which are produced at the extremities of the branches. The blossoms of this plant grow in pairs, closely connected at the German, so much so that the scarlet fruit that supersedes the flowers appears like a double berry, each berry containing the seeds of both flowers and a double eye. The plant is also called wintergreen, or twin berry. It resembles none of the other wintergreens. It grows in mossy woods, trailing along the ground, appearing to delight in covering little hillocks and inequalities of the ground. In elegance of growth, delicacy of flower, and brightness of berry, this wintergreen is little inferior to any of the former. There is a plant in our woods, known by the names of Mandrake, May Apple, and Duxfoot. The botanical name of the plant is Potophyllum. It belongs to the class in order, Polyandria, Monogna. The blossom is yellowish-white, the corolla consisting of six petals. The fruit is oblong. When ripe, of a greenish-yellow, in size, that of an olive, or large-dampson. When fully ripe, it has the flavor of preserved tamarind, a pleasant brisk acid. It appears to be a shy bearer, though it increases rapidly in rich, moist woodlands. The leaves come up singly, are palmated, and shade the ground very much when a number of them grow near each other. The stalk supports the leaf from the center. When they first appear above the ground, they resemble a folded umbrella, or parasol, all the edges of the leaves bending downwards, by degrees expanding into a slightly convex canopy. The fruit would make a delicate preserve with sugar. The lily-tribe offer an extensive variety from the most minute to the various largest flowers. The red martigan grows abundantly on our plains. The dog's-tooth violet. Ethronium, with its spotted leaves and bending yellow blossom, delicately dashed with crimson spots within, and marked with fine purple lines on the outer part of the petal, proves a great attraction in our woods where these plants increase. They form a beautiful bed. The leaves come up singly, one from each separate tuber. There are two varieties of this flower, the pale yellow, with neither spots nor lines, and the deep yellow, with both. The anthers of this last are reddish-orange, and thickly covered with a fine powdery substance. The daffodil of our woods is a delicate bending flower of a pale yellow. The leaves grow up the flower stalk at intervals. Three or more flowers usually succeed each other at the extremity of the stalk. Its height is from six to eight inches. It delights in the deep shade of the moist woods. This seems to unite the description of the jonquil and daffodil. A very beautiful plant of the lily-tribe abounds both in our woods and clearings. For want of a better name I call it the Dury Lily, though it is widely spread over a great portion of the continent. The Americans term the white and red varieties of this species, the white and red death. The flower is either deep red or of a dazzling white, though the latter is often found stained with a delicate blush-pink or a deep green. The latter appears to be caused by the calyx running into the petal, wherefore it bears so formidable a name has not yet transpired. The flower consists of three petals. The calyx three. It belongs to the class and order. Hexaria monogynia. Style three cleft seed vessel of three valves. Soil dry woods in cleared lands. Leaves growing in three, springing from the joints. Large round, but a little pointed at the extremities. We have lilies of the valley and their cousins, the Solomon's Seals. A small-flowered turkscap of pale primrose colour, with an endless variety of small flowers of the lily-tribe, remarkable for beauty of foliage or delicacy of form. Our ferns are very elegant, enumerous. I have no less than eight different specimens gathered from our immediate neighbourhood, some of which are extremely elegant, especially one that I call the fairy fern from its lightness. One elastic stem of a purplish red colour supports several light branches which are subdivided and furnished with innumerable leaflets. Each leaflet has a foot-stock that attaches it to the branch of so slight and hair like a substance that the least breath of air sets the whole plant in motion. Could we but imagine Canada to have been the scene of fairy revels? We should declare that these graceful ferns were well suited to shade the elfin court of Oberon and Titania. When this fern first appears above the ground, it is scarcely to be distinguished from the decaying wood of the fallen pines. It is then, of a light reddish-brown, curiously curled up. In May and June the leaves unfold, and soon assume the most delicate tint of green. They are almost transparent. The cattle are very fond of this fern. The moccasin flower, or lady-slipper, mark the odd coincidence between the common name of the American and English species. It is one of our most remarkable flower, both on account of its beauty and its singularity of structure. Our plains and dry sunny pastures produce several varieties. Among these, the Cypridium pubescence, or yellow moccasin, and the C. Erypinum, are the most beautiful of the species. The color of the lip of the former is a lively canary yellow, dashed with deep crimson spots. The upper petals consist of two short and two long, in texture and color resembling the sheath of some of the Narcissus tribe. The short ones stand erect like a pair of ears. The long or lateral pair are three times the length of the former, very narrow and elegantly twisted, like the spiral horns of the Walshian ram. On raising a thick yellow fleshy sort of lid, in the middle of the flower you perceive the exact face of an Indian hound. Perfect in all its parts, the eyes, nose, and mouth. Below this depends an open sack, slightly gathered round at the opening, which gives it a hollow and prominent appearance. The inside of this bag is delicately dashed with deep crimson or black spots. The stem of the flower is thick towards the upper part, and takes a direct bend. The leaves are large oval, a little pointed and ribbed. The plant scarcely exceeds six inches. This elegant color and silken texture of the lower lip or bag renders this flower very much more beautiful to my taste than the purple and white variety, though the latter is much more striking on account of the sides of the flower and leaves, besides the contrast between the white and red, or white and purple colors. The formation of this species resembles the other only with this difference. The horns are not twisted, and the face is that of a monkey. Even the comical expression of the animal is preserved with such admirable fidelity as to draw a smile from everyone that sees the odd, restless-looking visage, with its prominent round black eyes peering forth from under its covering. These plants belong to the class and order. Ginandria, Diantria, are described with some little variation by Purse, who, however, likens the face of the latter to that of a sheep. If a sheep sat for the picture, me thinks it must have been the most mischievous of the flock. There is a curious aquatic plant that grows in shallow, stagnant or slow-flowing waters. It will contain a full wine-glass of water. A poor soldier brought it to me and told me it resembled a plant he used to see in Egypt that the soldiers called the soldier's drinking-cup, and many a good draft of pure water, he said, I have drank from them. Another specimen was presented to me by a gentleman who knew my predilection for straightened plants. He very aptly gave it the name of pitcher-plant. It very probably belongs to the tribe that bear that name. The flowers that afford the most-decided perfumes are our wild roses, which possess a delicious scent, the milkweed which gives out a smell not unlike the night-blowing stalk, the purple monarda, which is fragrant itself from the root to the flower, and even after months' exposure to the wintry atmosphere, its dried leaves and seed-vessels are so sweet as to impart perfume to your hands or clothes. All our mints are strongly scented. The lily of the valley is remarkable for its fine smell. Then there is my queen of the lakes and her consort, the water-king, with many other flowers I cannot now enumerate. Certain it is that among such a vast assemblage of flowers there are, comparatively, very few that are gifted with fragrant scents. Some of our forest trees give out a fine perfume. I have often paused in my walks to inhale the fragrance from a cedar swamp on some sunny day, while the boughs were still wet with the dew-drops or recently fallen shower. Or is the balsam popular, or takamahak, less delightfully fragrant, especially while the gummy buds are just beginning to unfold. This is an elegant growing tree, where it has room to expand into boughs. It grows chiefly on the shores of the lakes and in open swamps, but it also forms one of the attractions of our planes, with its silver bark and waving foliage. It emits a resinous clear gum in transparent globules on the bark, and the buds are covered with a highly aromatic, gummy fluid. Our grasses are highly interesting. There are varieties that are wholly new to me, and when dried form the most elegant ornaments to our chimney-pieces, and would look very graceful on a lady's head. Only fashionists always prefer the artificial to the natural. One or two species of grass that I have gathered bear a close, but coarse, minute resemblance to the Indian corn, having a top feather and eight-sided spike of little grains disposed at the side joints. The sisyrincium or blue-eyed grass is a pretty little flower of an azure blue, with golden spa to the base of each petal. The leaves are flat, stiff, and flag-like. This pretty flower grows in tufts on light sandy soils. I have given you a description of the flowers most worthy of attention, and, though it is very probable, some of my descriptions may not be exactly in the technical language of the correct botanist. I have at least described them as they appear. My dear boy seems already to have a taste for flowers, which I shall encourage as much as possible. It is a study that tends to refine and purify the mind, and can be made by simple steps, a ladder to heaven, as it were, by teaching a child to look with love and admiration to that bountiful God who created and made flowers so fair to adorn and fructify this earth. Farewell, my dear sister.