"Was it Waterloo?" I asked.

He nodded quickly, without a shadow of hesitation. "That the one,"
he replied. "That's it, Waterloo."





THE LURE IN STANLEY PARK


There is a well-known trail in Stanley Park that leads to what I
always love to call the "Cathedral Trees"--that group of some
half-dozen forest giants that arch overhead with such superb
loftiness. But in all the world there is no cathedral whose marble
or onyx columns can vie with those straight, clean, brown tree-boles
that teem with the sap and blood of life. There is no fresco that
can rival the delicacy of lace-work they have festooned between
you and the far skies. No tiles, no mosaic or inlaid marbles, are
as fascinating as the bare, russet, fragrant floor outspreading
about their feet. They are the acme of Nature's architecture, and
in building them she has outrivalled all her erstwhile conceptions.
She will never originate a more faultless design, never erect a more
perfect edifice. But the divinely moulded trees and the man-made
cathedral have one exquisite characteristic in common. It is the
atmosphere of holiness. Most of us have better impulses after
viewing a stately cathedral, and none of us can stand amid that
majestic forest group without experiencing some elevating
thoughts, some refinement of our coarser nature. Perhaps those who