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I noticed a vast amount of white daisies in the meadows,

giving them the appearance of fields of white clover, or of buckwheat in blossom.

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To-day I am ascending the St. Lawrence, homeward bound. The rapids are overcome by means of canals and locks; therefore, our ascent of the river will be much slower than our descent over the rapids, at railroad speed. But I like this variety. Just now, I look out from the cabin window and see the river off to the right, foaming and writhing by the rocks and cedars. It is "Cedar Rapids." Our noble vessel is the same that proudly rode those swift billows a few days ago; but she chooses to pass them by on this return.

We are in a canal sixty feet wide, and deep enough for the largest steamers. The masonry at the locks is solid as the hills, and truly magnificent in its design and architecture. It surpasses any thing I have ever seen in the way of public improvements in the States. Now we come to a neat, wooden bridge thrown across the canal, within ten feet of the surface of the water, and, apparently, firmly resting on the abutments on either side. How shall we pass that? Soon as the query comes to the mind, a man who stands near the bridge presses a lever, and the bridge turns aside! The manœuvre is performed by water-power; a revolving waterwheel, somewhere beneath the abutments, turns the bridge away until we pass, then turns it back again. These gudgeon bridges are numerous along the canal.

It seems like traveling by steamboat overland! The fields are close to us, and the long water-grasses are brushed by the paddle-wheels on right and left as we

pass along. Here is a railroad crossing, with the usual precaution on a high and prominent board resting on two upright posts :

"Railroad crossing-look out for the engine."

"Traverse de chemin defer."

So, a Frenchman who can not read a word of English, must defer when the train comes! Here is the only place that I have found where a warning to railroad trains might, with propriety, be signaled. While this bridge is turned, and the steamer is passing, there is a fit moment when even the iron-horse and all his riders might well afford to be careful, for should he rush heedlessly onward to this cut-off, he would surely defer his race, and with battered bones and unjointed frame his last spark of life would be quenched in the waters.

The flowers are out in their loveliest attire in the gardens that abound on the canal-side. What so pleasing as this! to stand upon the deck and admire them as we glide along-new ones presenting their bright colors and fragrant odors every moment. And the overhanging trees afford us the cool shade of their leafy boughs, while the sweet tones of a guitar, touched by skillful fingers, greet our ears from the cabin of our floating home. But the flowers are dearest of all. A friend, not long since, spoke of the flowers, and called them "God's smiles." And so they are:

So spake a gentle friend,

And in her meek simplicity, expressed a truth,
Of meaning full and sweet, as from above,
Came to the mind of him, who, pen-inspired,
Wrote, "God is love."

Flowers are God's smiles,

Who doubts it for a moment? come and see
The blooming, fragrant, variegated bed,
So beautiful and gay, and each one smiling,
As if it said-

For you we live and smile;

For you we bend, and bloom, and clothe ourselves,
With colors manifold, all bright and fair;
We fill your rooms with sweetness; our odors
Float through the air.

Flowers are God's smiles

Carnations ever new, tall Hollyhocks,
Creeping Verbenas, drooping Fuchias,
Dahlias stately, Roses pure, and Lilies say-
God smiles in us.

In the better land,

Will flowers adorn the city's golden streets?

I can not say; but while I linger here-
Sweet flowers! I'll love them, for there to usward
God's smiles appear!

But, kind reader, you will weary with this ramble, I fear. Not that you do not love flowers, but that you dislike these pen-wanderings. And as I have been so dreamy this sultry summer's day, I ask pardon for this, and promise to write from Canada no more.

TO A DEPARTED MOTHER.

My mother, dearest, thou art gone,
For thee there falls the streaming tear;
Though thou canst not to me return,
I claim thee present with me here:
I can not tell

How long, how well,

I loved thee, O, my mother dear!

I know thou'rt gone to angel-land,
And that thou ever lovest me-

Thy poor, lone child; come, take my hand,
And let me go and stay with thee!
For, mother, thou

Art happy now,

And I thy happiness would see.

But weary days or tedious years

May vail from me thy Paradise;
Yet I can look through sorrow's tears
To glorious things beyond the skies!
My soul goes there

On wings of prayer,

Then skyward, too, my hopes arise.

Then, wherefore should my soul be stirred?

“THEY SHALL FIND REST THAT learn of Me;" I'll take thee, Saviour, at Thy word,

And humbly pray that I may be
Prepared by grace

To see Thy face,

And find eternal rest in Thee.

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