Perhaps he
murmurs in secret; but his voice is low, it is not heard; he has no
representative in the senate to take interest in his welfare, to plead in
his behalf. He is anxious, too, for the improvement of his race: he gladly
listens to the words of life, and sees with joy his children being brought
up in the fear and nurture of the Lord; he sees with pride some of his own
blood going forth on the mission of love to other distant tribes; he is
proud of being a Christian; and if there be some that still look back to
the freedom of former years, and talk of "the good old times," when they
wandered free as the winds and waters through those giant woods, they are
fast fading away. A new race is rising up, and the old hunter will soon
become a being unknown in Canada.
There is an old gnarled oak that stands, or lately stood, on the turfy
bank, just behind the old Government-house (as the settlers called it),
looking down the precipitous cliff on the river and the islands. The
Indians called it "the white girl's rest," for it was there that Catharine
delighted to sit, above the noise and bustle of the camp, to sing her
snatches of old Scottish songs, or pray the captive exile's prayer, unheard
and unseen.
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