A CHEISTMAS JAUNT 



cluster of log houses and stables, 

 perched solitary among snows that do 

 not fail it for nine months in the year, 

 to the wickedest town on earth with its 

 sands and torrid heat, ceases utterly. 



A fresh tandem took us rapidly on- 

 ward through the woods where the snow, 

 though deep, was undrifted; the little 

 spruces and balsams by the roadside 

 were solid pyramids of white where nei- 

 ther branch nor twig appeared, their 

 tops sometimes bent over with a burden 

 of snow which the wind had fashioned 

 into the likeness of strange birds and 

 beasts. We whirled down the long 

 slopes of the Cote Maclean through an 

 avenue of these glittering, fantastic 

 sculptures, toiled up the other side of 

 the deep ravine, and at a turn in the 

 road found ourselves in the cleared up- 

 lands above St. Tite des Caps, whence, 

 at night, one can see the lights of Que- 

 bec, still more than thirty miles distant. 



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