The close of the year silently came on, and I finish this letter with a “Sonnet to the Pines,” my first composition in the Bush, written partly to convince myself that I was not quite out of my wits, but had still the little modicum of intellect I once possessed, and partly to reassure your brothers and sisters, who were always predicting that I should bring on softening of the brain by my unceasing regrets for the past, and gloomy prognostications for the future.
SONNET TO THE MUSKOKA PINES!
Weird monarchs of the forest! ye who keep
Your solemn watch betwixt the earth and sky;
I hear sad murmurs through your branches creep.
I hear the night-wind’s soft and whispering sigh,
Warning ye that the spoiler’s hand is nigh:
The surging wave of human life draws near!
The woodman’s axe, piercing the leafy glade,