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.
The Indian only visits the town, once the favourite site for his hunting lodge, to receive his annual government presents, to trade his simple wares of basket and birch-bark work, to bring in his furs, or maybe to sell his fish or venison, and take back such store goods as his intercourse with his white brethren has made him consider necessary to his comforts, to supply wants which have now become indispensable, before undreamed of.

He traverses those populous, busy streets, he looks round upon dwellings, and gay clothes, and equipages, and luxuries which he can neither obtain nor imitate; and feels his spirit lowered--he is no more a people--the tide of intellect has borne him down, and swept his humble wigwam from the earth.

He, too, is changing: he now dwells, for the most part, in villages, in houses that cannot be moved away at his will or necessity; he has become a tiller of the ground, his hunting expeditions are prescribed within narrow bounds, the forest is disappearing, the white man is everywhere.