of romantic beauty on the extreme frontiers of
civilisation, where the rifle has not even yet given place to the
plough; where the pioneer husbandman and the painted warrior often
meet--the one to look with patronising superiority on the savage, whom
he means to benefit; the other to gaze curiously at the pale-face, and
to wonder, somewhat indignantly, when and where his encroachments are to
cease.

Woodlands and prairies, breezy uplands and grassy bottoms, alternate in
such picturesque confusion, and such lovely colours co-mingle, that a
painter--had one been there--must have deemed the place at all events
the vestibule of paradise.

There is a small hamlet on the slope of a hill, with a broad river
winding in front, a few hundred yards from the hamlet, which opens out
into a lake. On the margin of this lake lie a few boats. On the
surface of it float a few more boats, with one or two birch-bark canoes.
Some of these are moving to and fro; the occupants of others, which
appear to be stationary, are engaged in fishing. There is the sound of
an anvil somewhere, and the lowing of cattle, and the voices of
children, and the barking of dogs at play, and the occasional crack of a
gun. It is an eminently peaceful as well as beautiful backwood scene.

To a particular spot in this landscape we would direct attention. It is
a frame-house, or cottage, which, if not built according to the most
approved rules of architecture, is at least neat, clean,
comfortable-looking, and what one might style pretty. It is a
"clap-boarded" house, painted white, with an edging of brown which
harmonises well with the green shrubbery around. There is a verandah in
front, a door in the middle, two windows on either side, and no upper
storey; but there are attics with dormer windows, which are suggestive
of snug sleeping-rooms of irregular shape, with low ceilings and
hat-crushing doorways.

This cottage stands on the apex of a little hill which overlooks the
hamlet, commands the river and the lake, as well as an extensive view of
a sparsely settled district beyond, where the frontier farmer and the
primeval forest are evidently having a lively time of it together. In
short the cottage on the hill has a decidedly comfortable
come-up-quick-and-enjoy-yourself air which is quite charming.

On a certain fine afternoon in autumn Eve Liston, _alias_ Waboose, Big
Otter and I, rode slowly up the winding path which led to this cottage.
We had be