trees are all green--the maple, that most beautiful of trees! Well has
Canada made the symbol of her new nationality that tree whose green
gives the spring its earliest freshness, whose autumn-dying tints are
richer than the clouds of sunset, whose life-stream is sweeter than
honey, and whose branches are drowsy through the long summer with the
scent and the hum of bee and flower! Still the long line of the
Canadas admits of a varied spring. When the trees are green at Lake
St. Clair, they are scarcely budding at Kingston, they are leafless at
Montreal, and Quebec is white with snow. Even between Montreal and
Quebec, a short night's steaming, there exists a difference of ten
days in the opening of the summer. But late as comes the summer to
Quebec, it comes in its loveliest and most enticing form, as though it
wished to atone for its long delay in banishing from such a landscape
the cold tyranny of winter. And with what loveliness does the whole
face of plain, river, lake and mountain turn from the iron clasp of
icy winter to kiss the balmy lips of returning summer, and to welcome
his bridal gifts of sun and shower! The trees open their leafy lids to
look at him--the brooks and streamlets break forth into songs of
gladness--"the birch tree," as the old Saxon said," becomes beautiful
in its branches, and rustles sweetly in its leafy summit, moved to and
fro by the breath of heaven"--the lakes uncover their sweet faces, and
their mimic shores steal down in quiet evenings to bathe themselves in
the transparent waters--far into the depths of the great forest speeds
the glad message of returning glory, and graceful fern, and soft
velvet moss, and white wax-like lily peep forth to cover rock and
fallen tree and wreck of last year's autumn in one great sea of
foliage. There are many landscapes which can never be painted,
photographed, or described, but which the mind carries away
instinctively to look at again and again in the after-time--these are
the celebrated views of the world, and they are not easy to find. From