The Indian must also yield to circumstances; he submits patiently.

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.
The setting sun was casting long shadows of oak and weeping elm athwart the waters of the river; the light dip of the paddle had ceased on the water, the baying of hounds and life-like stirring sounds from the lodges came softened to the listening ear.

The hunters had come in with the spoils of a successful chase; the wigwam fires are flickering and crackling, sending up their light columns of thin blue smoke among the trees; and now a goodly portion of venison is roasting on the forked sticks before the fires.