But it is not always frigid here, for we have springtide and the season of seven sweet suns. "Good morrow!" shouts the tired Winter in the time of melting snows. "Good morrow!" shouts back the nimble Spring as he throws a mist of green over the young aspens. "Come fly with me and touch the sun," pleads the eagle to his sweetheart. "Come with me and be my love," woos Kiya, boatman of the Athabasca; "already the young birds are in their nests and soon they will fly away. Soon will the time of mating be past."
Aye! but the summer winds are honey-mouthed.
Aye! but the skies are star-enchanted, and there are fair stories I might tell about yellow grain fields and of red lilies like blown flame, but none save those who are prairie rangers would understand aright.
Besides, there are woolly-mouthed men and chattering daws who say secretly that we of the North are boasters, and that we tell ill tales.
But though we are impeached, yet will we say that our song is tinged with no lie. We are young men, and sowers of grain, and it is pleasant to glorify the largess of our harvest.
We are boasters, they tell, and full-mouthed, but why should we keep hidden and unshared the all-golden treasures of our fields? We will not hide this thing in our hearts, but, with fair speech, will sing it in a million-voiced canticle of praise. There is no need that we sing restrainedly of our goodly dower, or in measured words, for we are no servile race of hirelings, but free men and proclaimers of this land. Because we are witnesses that the talent of our country is folded in the fecund earth, we will speak aloud to our neighbouring Saxons of friendly mind, and to the brotherhood of the soil throughout the universe. We will speak with them concerning our gold, and vineyards, and fine flour; of our forests, and fisheries, and apple orchards, till their veins stir as with the tang of old wine. These folk have need to know that in the North prosperity groweth widely; that here the unbelievable is achieved. This is the true fairy-land where swineherds and barbers, and much labouring men are raised to riches and power. Here is a dining-hall whose friendly feast is spread for all. Here every man may come and eat of our cakes and melons, of our honey and fat things.
The North has no need of an interpreter: it has need of heralds. Then ho! for our fierce and beautiful country; our strong and fertile country.
We will send these tidings Europeward and the far-delivered message shall not fall to the ground. It is a blithe young tune we shall sing, with a resonant chorus of "Canada, O Canada."
Fitting is it that we should sing to the Isles of Britain, for from them is the birth of this breed and theirs is the royal stamp we bear upon our fighting arm. We are the wide-ruling seed of the Saxons and ever shall we answer to the rally of the race. All hands around! We will pledge the homeland of Britain!
And who will sing this song of the North? Sit you here till we talk of this thing. I pray you prompt my pen as it forgets.