The
log-houses have fallen to decay--a growth of young pines, a waste of
emerald turf with the charred logs that once formed part of the enclosure,
now, hardly serve to mark out the old settlement--no trace or record
remains of the first breakers of the bush, another race occupy the ground.
The traveller as he passes along on that smooth turnpike road that leads
from Coburg to Cold Springs, and from thence to Gore's Landing, may notice
a green waste by the road-side on either hand, and fancy that thereabouts
our Canadian Crusoes' home once stood--he sees the lofty wood-crowned
hill, and sees in spring-time, for in summer it is hidden by the luxuriant
foliage, the little forest creek, and he may if thirsty, taste of the pure
fresh icy water, as it still wells out from a spring in the steep bank,
rippling through the little cedar-trough that Louis Perron placed there
for the better speed of his mother when filling her water jug. All else is
gone. And what wrought the change?--a few words will suffice to tell. Some
travelling fur merchants brought the news to Donald Maxwell, that a party
of Highlanders had made a settlement above Montreal, and among them were
some of his kindred.
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