Pines of a great height and thickness crowded the tops of these hills. The paths of hurricanes could be traced over extensive tracts by the fallen trunks of trees of this species, their huge bulks lying one over the other in a titanic confusion worthy of a sketch by Doré in illustration of Dante; their heads all in one direction, their upturned roots, vast mats of woody ramifications and earth, presented sometimes a perpendicular wall of a great height. Occasionally one of these upright masses, originating in the habit of the pine to send out a wide-spread but shallow rootage, would unexpectedly fall back into its original place, when, in the clearing of the land, the bole of the tree to which it appertained came to be gashed through. In this case it would sometimes happen that a considerable portion of the trunk would appear again in a perpendicular position. As its top would of course show that human hands had been at work there, the question would be propounded to the new comer as to how the axe could have reached to such a height. The suppositions usually encouraged in him were, either that the snow must have been wonderfully deep when that particular tree was felled, or else that some one of the very early settlers must have been a man of exceptional stature.
Among the lofty pines, here and there, one more exposed than the rest would be seen, with a piece of the thickness of a strong fence-rail stripped out of its side, from its extreme apex to its very root, spirally, like the groove of a rifle-bore. It in this manner showed that at some moment it had been the swift conductor down into the earth of the contents of a passing electric cloud. One tree of the pine species, we remember, that had been severed in the midst by lightning, so suddenly, that the upper half had descended with perfect perpendicularity and such force that it planted itself upright in the earth by the side of the trunk from which it had been smitten.
Nor may we omit from our remembered phenomena of the pine forests hereabout, the bee-trees. Now and then a huge pine would fall, or be intentionally cut down, which would exhibit in cavernous recesses at a great distance from what had been its root end, the accumulated combs of, it might be, a half century; those of them that were of recent construction, filled with honey.
A solitary survivor of the forest of towering pines which, at the period to which we are adverting, covered the hills on both sides of the Don was long to be seen towards the northern limit of the Moss Park property. In the columns of a local paper this particular tree was thus gracefully commemorated:—
Oh! tell to me, thou old pine tree, Oh! tell to me thy tale, For long hast thou the thunder braved, And long withstood the gale; The last of all thy hardy race, Thy tale now tell to me, For sure I am, it must be strange, Thou lonely forest tree. Yes, strange it is, this bending trunk, So withered now and grey, Stood once among the forest trees Which long have passed away: They fell in strength and beauty, Nor have they left a trace, Save my old trunk and withered limbs To show their former place. Countless and lofty once we stood; Beneath our ample shade His forest home of boughs and bark The hardy red man made. Child of the forest, here he roamed, Nor spoke nor thought of fear, As he trapped the beaver in his dam, And chased the bounding deer. No gallant ship with spreading sail Then ploughed those waters blue, Nor craft had old Ontario then, But the Indians' birch canoe; No path was through the forest, Save that the red man trod; Here, by your home, was his dwelling place, And the temple of his God. Now where the busy city stands, Hard by that graceful spire, The proud Ojibeway smoked his pipe Beside his camping fire. And there, where those marts of commerce are Extending east and west, Amid the rushes in the marsh The wild fowl had its nest. But the pale face came, our ranks were thinn'd, And the loftiest were brought low, And the forest faded far and wide, Beneath his sturdy blow; And the steamer on the quiet lake, Then ploughed its way of foam, And the red man fled from the scene of strife To find a wilder home.
And many who in childhood's days Around my trunk have played, Are resting like the Indian now Beneath the cedar's shade; And I, like one bereft of friends, With winter whitened o'er, But wait the hour that I must fall, As others fell before. And still what changes wait thee, When at no distant day, The ships of far off nations, Shall anchor in your bay; When one vast chain of railroad, Stretching from shore to shore, Shall bear the wealth of India, And land it at your door.
A short distance above the hop ground of which we have spoken, the Don passed immediately underneath a high sandy bluff. Where, after a long reach in its downward course, it first impinged against the steep cliff, it was very deep. Here was the only point in its route, so far as we recall, where the epithet was applicable which Milton gives to its English namesake, when he speaks of—
"Utmost Tweed, or Ouse, or gulphy Don."
This very noticeable portion of the river was known as the "Big Bend." (We may observe here that in retaining its English name, the Don has lost the appellation assigned to it by the French, if they ever distinguished it by a name. The Grand River, on the contrary, has retained its French name, notwithstanding its English official designation, which was the Ouse. The Rouge, too, has kept its French name. It was the Nen. The Indians styled this, or a neighbouring stream, Katabokokonk, "The River of Easy Entrance." The Thames, however, has wholly dropped its French title, LaTranche. We may subjoin that the Humber was anciently called by some, St John's River, from a trader named St. John; and by some, as we have already learnt, Toronto River. In Lahontan's map it is marked Tanaouaté. No interpretation is given.—Augustus Jones, the early surveyor of whom we shall have occasion frequently to speak, notes in one of his letters that the Indian name for the Don was Wonscoteonach, "Back burnt grounds;" that is, the river coming down from the back burnt country, meaning probably the so-called Poplar Plains to the north, liable to be swept by casual fires in the woods. The term is simply descriptive, and not, in the modern sense, a proper name.)
Towards the summit of the high bluff just mentioned, the holes made by the sand-martins were numerous. Hereabout we have met with the snapping turtle. This creature has not the power of withdrawing itself wholly within a shell. A part of its protection consists in the loud threatening snap of its strong horny jaws, armed in front with a beak-like hook bent downwards. What the creature lays hold of, it will not let go. Let it grasp the end of a stout stick, and the sportsman may sling it over his shoulder, and so carry it home with him. When allowed to reach its natural term of life, it probably attains a very great age. We remember a specimen captured near the spot at which we are pausing, which, from its vast size, and the rough, lichen-covered condition of its shell, must have been extremely old. We also once found near here a numerous deposit of this animal's eggs; all white and spherical, of the diameter of about an inch, and covered with a tough parchment-like skin.