country, and in work well done.
And it is just this stern life which must be lived, sooner or
later, not only in the wilds of Athabasca, but in facing
everywhere the great problems of race-stability--the spectres
of retribution--which are rapidly rising upon the white man's
horizon.

For the rest, and granting the manhood, the future of Athabasca
is more assured than that of Manitoba seemed to be to the doubters
of thirty years ago. In a word, there is fruitful land there,
and a bracing climate fit for industrial man, and therefore its
settlement is certain. It will take time. Vast forests must
be cleared, and not, perhaps, until railways are built will
that day dawn upon Athabasca. Yet it will come; and it is well
to know that, when it does, there is ample room for the immigrant
in the regions described.

The generation is already born, perhaps grown, which will recast
a famous journalist's emphatic phrase, and cry, "Go North!" Well,
we came thence! Our savage ancestors, peradventure, migrated from
the immemorial East, and, in skins and breech-clouts, rocked the
cradle of a supreme race in Scandinavian snows. It has travelled
far to the enervating South since then; and, to preserve its
hardihood and sway on this continent, must be recreated in the
high latitudes which gave it birth.

MR. COTE'S POEM.

Sortez de vos tombeaux, peuplades endormies
A l'ombre des grands pins de vos forets benies!
Venez, fils de guerriers, qui jadis sous ces bois
Bruliez vos tomahawks, vos armes et vos carquois!
Que sur vos pales fronts l'aureole immortelle
Pour votre bienfaiteur s'illumine plus belle.
Neophytes, venez en ce jour de bonheur
Proclamer les vertus de l'illustre pasteur,
Qui pour vous ses agneaux, ses brebis les plus cheres.
Consacra sa jeunesse et ses annees entieres.
Venez, fleurs qui brillez au jardin de Bon Dieu.
Repandre les parfums qu'exhale le saint lieu
Sur l'illustre vieillard qui de sa voix benie
Vous fit epanouir dans l'hoeureuse patrie!
Tendre et venere pere, apotre magnanime,
Grand pretre du Seigneur, votre oevre fut sublime.
Des bords du Missouri jusqu'aux glances du nord,
Voyez, semeur beni, cinquante sillons d'or;
Voyez sur le versant de la montagne sainte
De votre charite l'imperissable empreinte;
Voyez cette legion d'ames regenerees
Portant par votre main les celestes livrees.
Quoi, muse profane, indigne chalumeau,
Oserais-tu planer sur un theme