By Susanna Moodie
In our paintings of "Roughing it within the Bush," I endeavoured to attract an image of Canadian lifestyles, as i discovered it 20 years in the past, within the Backwoods. My intent in giving any such depression narrative to the British public, was once triggered via the desire of deterring well-educated humans, approximately to settle during this colony, from getting into upon a existence for which they have been absolutely unfitted through their past targets and conduct.
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Additional resources for Life in the clearings versus the bush
The arrival of the circus is commonly announced several weeks before it makes its actual entree, in the public papers; and large handbills are posted up in the taverns, containing coarse woodcuts of the most exciting scenes in the performance. These ugly pictures draw round them crowds of little boys, who know the whole of the programme by heart, long before the caravans containing the tents and scenery arrive. Hundreds of these little chaps are up before day−break on the expected morning of the show, and walk out to Shannonville, a distance of nine miles, to meet it.
In England, a lady may please herself in the choice of colours, and in adopting as much of a fashion as suits her style of person and taste, but in Canada they carry this imitation of the fashions of the day to extremes. If green was the prevailing colour, every lady would adopt it, whether it suited her complexion or no; and, if she was ever so stout, that circumstance would not prevent her from wearing half−a−dozen more skirts than was necessary, because that absurd and unhealthy practice has for a long period prevailed.
There's not a little bird that wings Its airy flight on high, In forest bowers, that sweetly sings So blithe in spring as I. I love the fields, the budding flowers, The trees and gushing streams; I bathe my brow in balmy showers, And bask in sunny beams. "The wanton wind that fans my cheek, In fancy has a voice, In thrilling tones that gently speak−− Rejoice with me, rejoice! The bursting of the ocean−floods, The silver tinkling rills, The whispering of the waving woods, My inmost bosom fills.