ways one such man on every line. You can hear
similar tales from drivers on the Great Western in England or Eurasian
stationmasters on the big North-Western in India. Then a
fellow-traveller spoke, as many others had done, on the possibilities of
Canadian union with the United States; and his language was not the
language of Mr. Goldwin Smith. It was brutal in places. Summarised it
came to a pronounced objection to having anything to do with a land
rotten before it was ripe, a land with seven million negroes as yet
unwelded into the population, their race-type unevolved, and rather more
than crude notions on murder, marriage, and honesty. 'We've picked up
their ways of politics,' he said mournfully. 'That comes of living next
door to them; but I don't think we're anxious to mix up with their other
messes. They say they don't want us. They keep on saying it. There's a
nigger on the fence somewhere, or they wouldn't lie about it.'

'But does it follow that they are lying?'

'Sure. I've lived among 'em. They can't go straight. There's some dam'
fraud at the back of it.'

From this belief he would not be shaken. He had lived among
them--perhaps had been bested in trade. Let them keep themselves and
their manners and customs to their own side of the line, he said.

This is very sad and chilling. It seemed quite otherwise in New York,
where Canada was represented as a ripe plum ready to fell into Uncle
Sam's mouth when he should open it. The Canadian has no special love for
England--the Mother of Colonies has a wonderful gift for alienating the
affections of her own household by neglect--but, perhaps, he loves his
own country. We ran out of the snow through mile upon mile of
snow-sheds, braced with twelve-inch beams, and planked with two-inch
planking. In one place a snow slide had caught just the edge of a shed
and scooped it away as a knife scoops cheese. High up the hills men had
built diverting barriers to turn the drifts, but the drifts had swept
over everything, and lay five deep on the top of the sheds. When we woke
it was on the banks of the muddy Fraser River and the spring was
hurrying to meet us. The snow had gone; the pink blossoms of the wild
currant were open, the budding alders stood misty green against the blue
black of the pines, the brambles on the burnt stumps were in tenderest
leaf, and every moss on every stone was this year's work, fresh from the
hand of the Maker. The land opened into clearings of so