ed them in hues more gorgeous than the imagination of
even a Turner could conceive! Shades of lilac and violet deepening into
indigo; scarlet flecked with gold and green; the darkest claret and
richest crimson in opposition: no tropical forest was ever dyed in
greater glory of blossom than this Canadian forest in glory of foliage.

'What can it be, Robert?' asked Linda, after drinking in the delight of
colour in a long silent gaze. 'Why have we never such magnificence upon
our trees at home?'

'People say it is the sudden frost striking the sap; or that there is
some peculiar power in the sunbeams--actinic power, I believe 'tis
called--to paint the leaves thus; but one thing seems fatal to this
supposition, that after a very dry summer the colouring is not near so
brilliant as it would be otherwise. I'm inclined to repose faith in the
frost theory myself; for I have noticed that after a scorching hot day
and sharp night in August, the maples come out in scarlet next morning.'

'Now, at home there would be some bald patches on the trees,' observed
Arthur. 'The leaves seem to fall wholesale here, after staying on till
the last.'

'I have heard much of the Indian summer,' said Linda, 'but it far
exceeds my expectation. An artist would be thought mad who transferred
such colouring to his canvas, as natural. Just look at the brilliant
gleam in the water all along under that bank, from the golden leafage
above it; and yonder the reflection is a vermilion stain. I never saw
anything so lovely. I hope it will last a long time, Bob.'

That was impossible to say; sometimes the Indian summer was for weeks,
sometimes but for a few days; Canadians had various opinions as to
its arrival and duration: September, October, or November might have
portions of the dreamy hazy weather thus called. As to why the name was
given, nobody could tell; except it bore reference to an exploded idea
that the haze characteristic of the time of the year arose from the
burning of the great grassy prairies far west by the red men.

'What has become of your colony of Indians?' asked Armytage, 'those who
lived near the cedar swamp?'

'Oh, they left us in "the whortleberry moon," as they call August, and
migrated to some region where that fruit abounds, to gather and store it
for winter use. They smoke the berries over a slow fire, I am told, and
when dry, pack them in the usual birch-bark makaks; and I've seen them
mixed with the dough of bread, and