LETTER III. 29 



The room I am in is full of English trifles, 

 the things which seem to grow round a woman : 

 delicate ornaments, frames and photograph- 

 albums, full of honest English faces ; but if I 

 ring the bell, a pig-tailed Chinaman in a pro- 

 fusion of beautifully white linen will respond (at 

 his leisure) to my summons, to remind me that I 

 am on the very Western brink of the world, 

 with 6,000 miles between you and me. 



You know how we wandered about until we 

 got to Ottawa, for I wrote you all the news of 

 my travels up to that date. Let me pick up the 

 thread of my wanderings at that fair city which 

 has already had three names at least, none of 

 which seem, to my mind, to fit it. Neither 

 Bytown, nor Hole in the Woods, nor Ottawa, 

 should it be called if I could have my way, but 

 just simply Lumber-town, because it is the capital 

 of Canada, and lumber has made Canada ; because 

 it lies in the heart of a lumber district ; because 

 lumbering (next to legislating) is its principal 

 business ; its waters are red with dust from the 

 lumber-mills ; its streets are full of the lumber- 

 men ; its air is full of the scent of lumber fresh 

 sawn, and standing on the terrace of its really 

 beautiful Parliament Buildings, you look across a 

 broad river, the high-road of millions of logs from 

 the central lakes, on to acres and acres, nay, 



