That grey
village spire, with its groves of oak and pine, how invitingly it stands!
those trees that embower it, once formed a covert for the deer. Yonder
scattered groups of neat white cottages, each with its garden of flowers
and fruit, are spread over what was once an open plain, thinly planted with
poplar, oaks, and pine. See, there is another church; and nearer, towards
the west end of the town, on that fine slope, stands another, and another.
That sound that falls upon the ear is not the rapids of the river, but the
dash of mill wheels and mill dams, worked by the waters of that lovely
winding brook which has travelled far through woods and deep forest dingles
to yield its tribute to the Otonabee. There is the busy post-office, on the
velvet carpet of turf; a few years, yes, even a few years ago, that spot
was a grove of trees. The neat log building that stood then alone there,
was inhabited by the Government Agent, now Colonel Macdonald, and groups
of Indians might be seen congregated on the green, or reposing under the
trees, forming meet subjects for the painter's pencil, for he knew them
well, and was kind to them.
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