“I guess, when this country of your’n is once cleared up, and good roads made, and the creeks bridged, there won’t be such another place in all creation.”

“What makes you think so?” I enquired.

“Wal, just look what a fine frontage you have on that ’ere big pond (he meant Lake Huron) and good harbours and land that can’t be beat not no how.  All you want is ‘to go a-head,’ and you may take my word for it that this will be the garden of Canada yet.”

We had only one horse between us, which belonged to the Doctor, so that we were obliged to ride turn about.  In this manner we got on pretty well, so that by four o’clock we were within two miles of old Sebach’s.  The day had been excessively hot, and for the last hour we had heard distant thunder.  We, therefore, pushed on with redoubled energy, in hopes of escaping the storm.

Ever since I had witnessed the devastating effects of the whirlwind which passed through Guelph, and which I have described in a previous chapter, I had a dread of being exposed in the woods to the fury of such a tempest.  In this instance, however, we had the good fortune to reach the shanty just as the rain commenced; and well for us it proved that we had gained a shelter for ourselves and steed; for I seldom witnessed a more terrific storm.  The lightning was awful, accompanied by the loudest thunder I ever heard.  The volleys of heavy hail-stones on the shingled roof, together with the rushing sound of the wind, and the crash of falling trees, made it impossible for us to hear a word that was said.  Indeed, I did not feel much inclined for conversation; for I could not help meditating on the peril we had escaped.  Had the storm commenced an hour or two earlier or later, we should have bean exposed to its utmost fury, as there was no place of refuge nearer than twenty miles either way.

To show the terrible danger we had avoided, I counted a hundred and seventy-six large trees that had fallen across the road between Sebach’s and Trifogle’s—­a distance not exceeding twenty miles.

What a contrast this road now presents to what it was when I used to be in the habit of travelling over it!  I remember, once having been sent on some important business to the settlement, which admitted of no delay.  It was late in November; the snow had fallen unusually early, and there was no horse then to be procured at Goderich; so that I was obliged to walk without even a companion to cheer the solitary way.  I found the walking exceedingly laborious:  the snow was fully a foot deep and unbroken, save by the foot-marks of some lonely traveller.

I was very curious to learn who the person could be who had been necessitated to take such a long journey through the wilderness alone.  The second day of my journey, my curiosity was gratified by seeing the name of the person written in large characters in the snow.  I stopped and read it with much interest:  it was that of a Scotchman I knew,—­one James Haliday.  After reading that name, it appeared as if half the loneliness of the road was gone; for I knew from the freshness of the track, that a human being was travelling on the same path, and that he was, perhaps, not far ahead.