152 JOURNAL AND PROCEEDINGS. 
rushes mirrored at its margin. There are fifty things that are 
picturesque about an old pond. 
(3). The old bridge. Tome there is more poetry in an old stone 
bridge than in any volume that I have ever read. I will not say it 
is beautiful or grand or lovely, but it is ever quaint, and it pleases 
my eye and soothes my heart. If you sit by its old grey side and 
watch the water gently flowing under its shadowed arch, you cannot 
help feeling a sense of peace and pleasure. The old bridge needs 
no embellishment. 
(4). Now we hear the lazy monotonous hum of the old mill-wheel, 
aud we can just see the mill’s gable through the trees. Let us goa 
little nearer and see the water coming down the race and striking the 
heavy lopsided wheel. Its buckets are filled and emptied in dreamy 
succession as it grinds and creaks and groans its jolly old song. 
The miller too is just as slow,and, I hope, just as happy. When 
we leave our busy bustling life in the city and gaze on quiet peaceful 
scenes like these, how they at once fill us with a feeling of restful 
repose. Our hearts warm to these rural scenes. At every turn we 
get a picture that will please. 
(5). But let us follow on down the old beaten pathway by the 
stream. The waters seem to flow more rapidly. What noise 1s this 
echoing through the woodland? Nearer we come. We find it is 
necessary to make a descent, and looking back, behold the waterfall, 
its bridal veil set in variegated green. The overhanging rocks 
threaten a too near approach, and as the silvery spray envelopes our 
being, we stand filled with silent admiration. Surely we need no 
accessories here. 
(6). Now we come to the rapids and the beautiful cascades. 
Here nature herself makes our picture. Water in motion is always 
picturesque, but especially so when leaping from rock to rock, 
dashing its spray into the sunlight. How it glistens in all the colors 
of the rainbow. There is a peculiar fascination about this part of 
river scenery that is bewildering, and those of you who have enjoyed 
the privilege of a trip down the St. Lawrence, will fully realize my 
meaning. 
(7). Here we make the portage and, now, another change. Logs 
are being rolled into the stream. Sturdy men, with their long 
spiked poles, float on the round slippery timber. What strength and 
