[woop] LAURENCIANA 37 
VI. East and west it is a far cry from the salt sea to the fresh. 
But, in the life of north and south, it is a farther still, even at the same 
time of year, from Belle Isle to Pelee in Ontario. In the height of the 
summer at Belle Isle death-cold icebergs, hundreds of feet thick and 
acres in extent, are often to be seen; while at Pelee Island luxuriant 
vineyards are ripening for the wine-press, in the latitude of Oporto, 
Naples and Constantinople. Yet from Belle Isle to Pelee Island is 
only half the way between the Straits and the innermost headwaters of 
the St. Lawrence! 
But again, the essential unity of the great River is no less wonder- 
ful than the striking diversities of its seven parts. Winter lays the 
same tranquillizing hand upon it everywhere, stilling it into the regener- 
ative sleep from which it is awakened by the touch of Spring. And 
everywhere, along the headwaters, lakes and river channels, and thence 
to the sea, along the South Shore and its tributaries, over unnumbered 
leagues of waterway, and through every imaginable scene of woodland 
and meadow, plain, hill, valley, crag and mountain, the three open seasons 
bear sway sufficiently alike to find true voice in one and the same song 
of spring, another of summer, and yet another of the fall. 
LAURENTIAN SPRING. 
The lyric April time is forth, 
With lyric mornings, frost and sun; 
From leaguers vast of night undone 
Auroral mild new stars are born. 
And ever, at the year’s return, 
Along the valley grey with rime, 
Thou leadest, as of yore, where Time 
Can nought but follow to thy sway— 
The trail is far through leagues of Spring, 
And long the quest to the white core 
Of harvest quiet, yet once more 
I gird me to the old unrest. 
So another year has passed, 
And to-day the gardener Sun 
Wanders forth to lay his finger 
On the blossoms, one by one; 
Then will come the whitethroat’s cry— 
That far, lonely, silver strain, 
Piercing, like a sweet desire, 
The seclusion of the rain— 
And, though I be far away 
When the early violets come 
Smiling at the door with Spring, 
Say—‘The Vagabonds have come!” 
