Mailed Friday, 27th.




Ottawa,

_October 2nd_, 1884.


My Dear Mother,

I can't lose this mail after having taken so long about my last
letter. But it will scarcely be more than How d'you do? How are you?
I'm all right! Well, that's better than nothing, anyhow. I have, as
you see, again changed my location, whether advantageously or
otherwise I cannot as yet say. But this Capital of Canada is a
miserable little place. The railway station is very little better
than a shed in a field, and the road from there to the town--oh,
"golly!"--a train off the rails is nothing to it. I came up in the
hotel 'bus, and though I tried all I knew to sit firm and not let
daylight be seen betwixt me and my saddle, I was jumped about like a
dancing-master, and I hammered those cushions till I thought of
claiming a week's pay from the hotel for beating the dust out of
them. However, I did'nt; so I am still here. There is one good thing
I have done in coming here, I have reached the head and source of
the immigration question. I can get an unprejudiced opinion as to
the very best spots in the place--that is, settling spots--and also
various items of information which all tend, more or less, to the
endorsement of this moral: Let no professional men, of any sort,