Frederick George Scott



        The following notes are added at the request of many friends who are always asking me where and how I wrote my poems amid the distractions of a busy life.

    I submit them in a spirit of humility and with the desire of showing to others, if they will only pause now and then in the bustle of modern life, how much beauty and poetry lie around at every turn, if we only open our eyes to see it.

—F.G.S [Page 175]

In the Woods

         Written in the vestry of the old stone Church at Drummondville one lovely September day, while preparing to go for a picnic in the woods by the Black River. I intended it as a souvenir of the picnic.

The Temple of the Ages

         Written in the train one winter’s day when I was going up to Lake Edward. The sun shone with dazzling brightness on the snow-covered mountains, and the spruce forests looked black and grim by contrast. One thought of the forces which have formed those ancient Laurentian Mountains, with their store of huge boulders and granite precipices going back to the very beginning of the world. The appeal which nature makes to man in this vast country is full of the sense of being haunted by gigantic prehistoric forces.

         Written in Quebec in front of the fire one evening during the playing of a record on the victrola.

The Burden of Time

         Written in my garden in Quebec. Time is the greatest force in the universe, and to it all others are subservient. In the stanza beginning

         “I plunged whole continents beneath the deep,
         And left them sepulchred a million years,”

in which the coal formations are described, I was bothered to find the concluding lines. At such times, it is my custom to have my hair cut. It seems to make my brain work more clearly. I did so on this occasion, and coming out of the barber’s at sunset, the cool east wind blew upon my shorn head and the two closing lines came to me:

         “I called, and lo, the drowned lands rose from sleep,
         Sundering the waters of the hemispheres.” [Page 176]

In the Winter Woods

         Written in the brakeman’s van, a rude box car called locally “The Red Susan”, at the end of a freight train on the Drummond County Railway. It was heated by a red-hot wood stove, and was filled with tobacco smoke. I used to travel in it into the woods to visit some families at a place called “Carmel Hill”, long since developed into a farming country. One afternoon, the train was delayed until after sunset. I seized the opportunity of going out among the glorious old trees and imbibing their mysterious life-message as the great red sunset burnt in the west. The poem came to me then.

The Unnamed Lake

         Written one lovely day in September, 1897, when taking my children for a hay-cart drive towards the “Little Saguenay” behind St. Raymond, Quebec. On ascending a hill, we saw before us a blue sheet of water nestling among the mountains and the two lines:

                  “It sleeps among the thousand hills
                      Where no man ever trode;”

flashed upon me. As I walked on beside the hay-cart, enraptured by the scenery, I elaborated the poem into the form in now wears, remembering to embody the cry of the fish-hawk which we heard later on over a piece of water. Whenever I recite the poem, memories come back to me of the green hills drenched in sunshine, and the merry children in the hay-cart.

The Wayside Cross
         I was returning to Drummondville in my sleigh one dull winter’s day at twilight when I passed the cross, still standing near the village, and I began the poem.
         The poem is now in raised letters on a bronze tablet affixed to a large memorial cross on a scenic driveway near Los Angeles, California. [Page 177]

The Storm

         Written in the woods behind the Falls of Montmorency when a storm was gathering. A coming storm is one of the most magnificent sights in nature, but the moment the rain comes the beauty is over;

                  “The charging clouds in fury dash
                      And blind the world with rain.”

The River

         Written near the old bridge which crosses the river at Valcartier. I spent a delightful day alone beside the stream, almost on a level with the water. I fell asleep in the afternoon and woke up and, in a sort of waking dream, watched the current hurrying along between the overhanging trees. In the meadows beyond, cattle were feeding.

My Lattice

         Written in Drummondville, Quebec. One of the windows in my bed-room in the rectory was high above the floor and nothing could be seen through it but the sky and the clouds, and at night the mystery of the stars. In imagination, I used to love to let my mind pierce the depths of space.

The Snowstorm

         Written on one of my long winter drives through the woods at Drummondville. Religion enables us to see two worlds at the same time.


         Written at Drummondville. The inner meaning is revolt against the law of heredity. The poem was written at one sitting. [Page 178]

God’s Youth

         Written in Quebec one day as I passed a lovely little child in the street.

My Friend, Death
         Written in the smoking car of a train going from Quebec to Montreal.

The Frenzy of Prometheus

         The myth of Prometheus has always appealed to me. The Demi-god is here represented as having gone mad under the blazing sun through his long solitude on the rock to which he was chained by Jupiter for his over-weening ambition and his treachery in bringing the gift of fire to mortals. In his frenzy he sees the transition of empire from the Greeks and Romans and Tartars, till the end comes with its passing to the western world. In the death of the world, his madness reaches its climax, and he believes himself to be the lone ruler of the universe.

The Charcoal Burner

         Written after climbing Mount Washington, N. H. On driving to Glen House at the base, we saw smoke curling up from a rude cabin on the side of the mountain. When I asked who lived there, the driver said it was a charcoal burner.

In Via Mortis
(In the Way of Death)

         Written at Drummondville while I was deep in Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. During long country drives in the winter, the scenes and characters of the history became an integral part of the solitude. There were no distractions to destroy the illusion of the living reality of the great drama of the past. One seemed to be constantly in the midst of the events and heroes of olden times. I have often thought it was a kind of premonition of my experience, years after, in the Great War. [Page 179]

Nature’s Recompense

         Written at Cap à l’Aigle, Quebec. I was tired and had gone into the woods, perhaps too eager to feel the old thrill which nature alone can give. My impatience, no doubt, closed the avenues of sense. Then I just lay on the ground and gave up trying to feel. I was rewarded, for soon the scents and the little voices of the woods, and the twinkling of sunlit leaves against the sky, gave me the old delight.

The Feud

         The ballad was written one evening in Drummondville.


         Written in Quebec. One’s attitude towards death ought to be the looking for a larger and more glorious life, an entrance into those regions of existence which the limitations of our senses in a bodily state preclude our entering.

A Reverie

         Written at Drummondville.

Old Letters

         Written at Drummondville. I had been reading some old letters and was feeling sad, when, at sunset, the children returned from a walk and their joyousness dispelled the gloom.

The Old Gardener

         Written after the funeral of an old man who had been gardener at Wolfesfield for many years. I remember he had a fine head of silvery hair. [Page 180]

His Parting

         This, and the three following poems, “Little Friend’s” Grave, My Little Son, and Anniversary, were written in Quebec after the death of my little son. He took ill one summer at Lake St. Joseph and had to be brought to town on a stretcher. In the family, we always called him “Little Friend”. Although very sacred and personal, I publish these verses as a message of hope to other stricken parents.

A Dream of the Prehistoric

         Written in Drummondville. First published in the New York “Independent”. I was reading Darwin’s “Origin of Species” at the time.

On An Old Venetian Portrait

         The picture was given to me years ago by a cousin in New York, and has hung for years in my hall. The subject and painter are unknown, and the canvas shows the marks of age. But “The Old Cardinal” is quite a member of the family.

The Poets of the Woods

         Written in the train from Montreal to Quebec at a time of anxiety.

The Sprite

         Written at Sheffield in 1886 on the day I was sailing for home.

The Poet’s Song

         Written during a divinity lecture at Bishop’s College, Lennoxville, in 1882, when I was a student. [Page 181]

My Garden

         Written in the old garden of St. Matthew’s Rectory, Quebec, which was my home for thirty-four years. The view from the “Poet’s Seat” in the garden, towards the Laurentian Hills, is superb.


         Written in the train leaving Quebec for Montreal at a time of anxiety and distress.

Van Elsen

         Written while I was riding on horseback from St. Germain to Drummondville, after visiting a husband and wife in great sorrow through the loss of their little baby. I was thinking of the special mission on earth which the child had fulfilled in so short a space of time.

In Te Domine

         Written on the back of a telegraph form in the train from Montreal to Quebec.

“Cease Fire”

         Written in the train to Hamilton when I was going to give an address at a dinner on Armistice Day.


         Written in Quebec after reading the striking story of a king that failed, which came in the Old Testament lesson for the day.

The Sea’s Mystery

         Written on the rocks at Cap à l’Aigle, below Murray Bay, when the tide was coming in one afternoon and engulfing the rocks on which I was sitting. [Page 182]

Among the Spruces

         Written in Drummondville, Quebec, where I was rector for nearly ten years. To me, the thought of God is inseparable from nature, and I have always loved to say my prayers out of doors. The charming silence which settles upon the woods after a heavy snowfall in the winter, is always provocative of deep thoughts. The trees, bowed with the weight of snow, gradually being shaken off by slight breezes, seem to be thrilled with the same emotions as myself, and the deep blue sky overhead is the domed roof of nature’s great temple.

On Being Given a Piece of Edelweiss Before Visiting Switzerland

         Written at Coggeshall, Essex, in 1886, after spending an evening with my vicar, the late H. M. Patch, who was a member of the Alpine Club, and who had been telling me of what I was to see during my coming holiday in Switzerland.


         Written at Drummondville in one of the volumes of Gibbon’s History, when I had finished reading it.

The Heaven of Love

         Written at Drummondville on a hand car returning from a service at Carmel Hill. The night before, as I was deep in a book on astronomy, I got up at midnight and went out and looked at the stars. Then, full of the awe which such a sight engenders, I went to the nursery and saw my little boy asleep, and thought how human love transcends the mysteries of the physical universe.

At Nightfall

         Written one windy evening at Drummondville when the trees around the rectory were very noisy. [Page 183]

Easter Island

         Written on a hand car near Dummondville. I had been reading an account of that mysterious island, about two thousand miles west of Chile, and of the huge statues there, the only expression of the religion of an unknown race who perished long ago and left no other trace of its existence. The pathos of the blind groping for truth in a dead race impressed me.

Evensong in the Woods

         Written in the late afternoon in the woods behind the Falls of Montmorency. The October sun was sending its level rays into the richly coloured leaves of autumn.

By the Grave of Keats

         It was at sunset that my friend, Canon Balfour, and I arrived at the English cemetery in Rome in August, 1904. On paying a small fee, we were admitted by the guardian and there read on the poet’s tombstone, the epitaph he chose for himself,

         “Here lies one whose name is writ in water.”

I thought how little Keats then knew that his influence would illuminate England’s nature poetry for ever.

The Divinity

         Written in the train among the Laurentians as I was returning from Lake Edward to Quebec.

The Mill-stream

         Written on a moss-covered boulder at the foot of the mill dam in the little Jean le Rose River which flows down the side of Mount St. Anne, behind Beauprè, Quebec. [Page 184]


         Read at the Shakespeare Club dinner in Montreal in 1884. This sonnet is printed in the Memorial Volume in the Shakespeare Library in Stratford-on-Avon. The wonder of Shakespeare is his power of objective vision. The characters he created bore no resemblance to himself. He dwelt outside the world his genius made. We cannot find himself in his works.


         Written in Quebec on the day before Foch died and printed two weeks later in the London Morning Post. I remember the thrill that went through our hearts at the Front when we heard that General Foch had taken over the supreme command.

The King’s Bastion

         Written in the bastion overlooking the City of Quebec, on a hot summer’s day. Far off to the northeast, I could see Cap Tourment where the widening of the river stops the force of its current. The Battle of the Plains was one of the turning points in the world’s history. Somewhere into space the sound and light waves from the struggle roll off for ever. Gilbert Parker, to whom I was reciting the sonnet one day on the bastion, got me to change the last lines. I did so for a time, and then went back to the original which I am convinced is better.

The Laurentians

         The Laurentian Mountains, which run from Lake Superior to Labrador, are the oldest mountain range in the world. They have been worn down and graved by many ice ages, and show the marks of the passage of glaciers. Now, all prehistoric activities have long ceased, and the mountains wear a lonely and unique solitariness, broken only by rapid streams with their waterfalls and numerous lakes, and stretches of spruce forests where the ravages of fires have left acres and acres of grey burnt stems. [Page 185]


         Written at Beauprê, Quebec, in the early evening of a winter’s day, when old memories of camping days there returned.


         Written on the upper gallery of a house overlooking the waters of Gaspé Basin. The sea was calm and blue and the mountains a rich green in the sunshine.

The Penalty

         Written in Quebec. It was my sad duty on one occasion in the War to have to prepare for death a man who was to be shot for cowardice. The circumstances of the case are given in my book, “The Great War As I Saw It.”

         I baptized the poor fellow, and gave him Holy Communion in the prison at midnight, and then visited two generals, interceding for his pardon. The order, I was told, could not be changed, and he was executed, exactly as I have described the scene, at daybreak on a rainy hillside. I am thankful to say that the death penalty for desertion from the Front has now been abolished. I feel sure the British Line, wherever it may be, will hold just as well without it. The great task before us is to abolish war itself with all its horrors.

The Warrior

         Written at Gaspé a few minutes after I had finished “Prelude”.

Yuletide in France

         Written in a little garden at St. Jans Capelle, near Baileul, France, in January, 1916. I had been confined to my billet through an accident for some weeks, and on going out into the garden I found a bush of rosemary. The scent brought back memories of an old garden in England. Rosemary, in the middle ages, was used as a decoration in churches at Christmas, and was placed around the boar’s head, the ancient dish for the Christmas dinner. [Page 186]


         Written beside the Black River at Drummondville in a field by the road to St. Germain.

A Grave in Flanders

         Written at St. Jans Capelle in 1916. It was suggested by a solitary grave beside the road near Hill 63, Ploegsteert, Belgium. It seemed so quiet under the trees and the continual stream of war traffic left it undisturbed.

Hymn of Praise

         Written in Quebec and inspired by a gust of east wind which struck me in St. John Street one day. The poem is the creed of my philosophy.

The Chamber of Peace

         Written in Quebec.

At Last

         Written in the doctor’s house at Harrington Harbour, Labrador, while waiting for dinner. I had been reading “The Oxford Book of Verse”, and I thought I would write a poem of passion. I wrote the poem on the flyleaf of the book.

The Silent Toast

         Written on Vimy Ridge in a dugout at 4 a.m., a few days after we had taken the ridge. When we came out of the line, we used to have a dinner for the battalion officers, and a good dinner, too, often in some broken-down farmhouse. The Silent Toast to the dead was always to me a very harrowing moment. I used to look at the faces of the gallant young men and wonder which of them, or how many of them, would be absent from the next party. Then some face would vividly come before one of a friend who had gone into the unseen world. [Page 187]

On the Rue du Bois

         Near my little house on the Rue du Bois, in March, 1915, not far from Fleurbaix, stood a brick shrine with a large white crucifix inside. One day the Germans started shelling the place, and killed and wounded some of our men. That night as I was returning from burying the dead in a field beyond, I stopped to look at the emblem of our salvation, when a German flare light went up, and I beheld myself silhouetted against the white figure. It gave me a shock. I wrote the poem a few days after in a train going to Rouen to see my son, who had been wounded and had lost an eye. The poem was sent to the London “Times” by General Smith-Dorien, and was read out by Archdeacon Wilberforce during a sermon in Westminster Abbey.

On the Threshold

         Written in a red sandstone cave on Grindstone Island, one of the Magdalen Islands in the Gulf of the St. Lawrence, north-east of Prince Edward Island. It was a cold Sunday afternoon, and the clouds were torn with the wind as they sent rain down every now and then. The sea was a dull grey, and the breakers were long and white as they broke on the beautiful red sand. I had a swim by myself, and then, after dressing, I sat down on a rock and wrote the poem. One longed to know what was behind the cold heartlessness of the material universe; what goal lies beyond the race of evolution and the mysteries of the stellar universe.

                  “The infinite pathos of the Eternal Will
                         Supreme and still.”

Call Back Our Dead

         Printed in the “New York Times” on Armistice Day several years ago. [Page 188]

Ave Atque Vale

         Dictated to my orderly, who was a stenographer in civil life. I composed the poem at St. Jans Capelle on waking early one morning. Later on in the year, when things were going badly at the Front, my orderly felt compelled to go back into the line, where he was killed fighting bravely in an attack. “Ave atque vale”, old friend!

Journey’s End

         Written in the train going to La Tuque, P.Q.

The Last Raid

         Written in Victoria, B.C., on the 29th of September, 1929, the fifteenth anniversary of the First Canadian Division’s sailing from Quebec for Europe. The “Last Raid” still awaits those who escaped with their lives from the War, and must be met some day. I think that for many an old soldier, death has lost its terrors. The usual pomp and gloom which surround funerals at home, were, thank God, absent from the simple burials at the Front.


         Written on the beach at Cap a l’Aigle while I was lying on the sand enjoying the rich sunshine and salt air.

The Prisoner

         Written in a car at the foot of Cap Tourment below Quebec, while I was waiting for some friends to come down from the mountain.

The Unbroken Line

         Written in Quebec as a dedication poem to my book, “The Great War As I Saw It”, published (first edition) in 1922, and (second edition) in 1934. [Page 189]


         Written at one sitting in Drummondville, after finishing one of the volumes of Grote’s History of Greece. The old stoics have always won my admiration, and Dion was a magnificent example of their heroism.

The Cripple

         Written one day near Drummondville, when I saw a little girl hiding in the bushes, and I remembered one who was very dear to me whom I had lost years before, and who had been a cripple.

The Gates of Time

         Written in Quebec. Often in the War when I had to go up a road or trench on which shells were falling, I used to make the sign of the cross, and repeat these lines, and then go on unconcernedly.


         This poem is from the Greek anthology, a collection of verses and epigrams found in the Vatican library some centuries ago. I composed the translation one evening by the seaside at Cap à l’Aigle to the noise of many crows in the trees overhead whom my presence there was disturbing.


         Written in Quebec. There are times when nature seems to draw us away from our soul life, with its problems and emotions, and makes us long to blend with her blind and impersonal fulfillment of destiny, attaining peace thereby.

The Airman

         Written in Quebec on hearing of the death by accident of that gallant airman, W. G. Barker, V.C., on a winter’s day, when trying a new plane. Barker was one of the outstanding heroes of the War. [Page 190]


         Written in Quebec, on the tercentenary of Milton’s birth, in 1908. If we look at Milton dispassionately, the inspired consecration of himself to poetry in his early and beautiful youth, and then look at his accomplishment after years of hard self-discipline in what he considered the cause of God and liberty, I think we shall admit him to be probably the greatest Englishman that ever lived.

By the Sea

         The first verse was written in our mission boat going from Harrington to Mutton Bay on the Canadian Labrador. The long, low coastline of treeless granite rocks, worn smooth by tides and ice through millions of years, produced a queer, eerie feeling in the mind. Empires had risen and decayed and the ageless sound of the lonely sea and winds seemed like the passing bell of time ringing out the death of all things. I wrote the second stanza on the moss-covered hill above Mutton Bay on the following day.


         Written at one sitting in Drummondville. The tale is entirely my own invention.

A Waif

         Written in Quebec after leaving the hospital where a little orphan girl, who had long been a great sufferer, had just died.

A Sister of Charity

         Written in Quebec after the death in Montreal of my dear godmother who was one of God’s self-forgetting and ministering angels, and never knew it. [Page 191]


         Written when driving down to Quebec from the mountains near Stoneham, about twenty miles northwest of the city.

The Hand

         Written at Quebec one day after watching some men putting in new drain pipes in one of the streets. At the back of all our machinery is the labour of the human hand.


         Begun while I was lying awake in a sleeping-bag under a tarpaulin at Brielen, near Ypres. I had been up with the Canadian Scottish during the gas attack on April 22nd, 1915, and, having lost all my kit in the town by shell fire, the next morning I took refuge with the battalion transport who also had lost most of their equipment. As I lay awake, I wondered what all our comrades who had “passed over” were doing now. We had not then grown accustomed to the loss of friends. I finished the poem at a little village called Robec. As I wrote it, I could see through the window, my host, who was a carpenter, making a baby’s coffin. The poem was published in the London “Times”, and is in several war anthologies.


         Written in the train to Montreal one winter’s day at sunset. I was looking at the windows in the farmhouses on a hill, shining like rubies in the setting sun, and I thought of the pastoral content of the families within the homes.

A Master Mason

         Written at the funeral of a dear old friend, who was a Master Mason, and worked hard all his life, honestly doing his duty both to God and man. [Page 192]

The Wreck

         Written in Quebec after the sinking of the “Titanic”. I went into a shop where a gramophone record of Sarah Bernhardt’s voice in a soliloquy from l’Aiglon gave me the inspiration.

The Sea

         Written in the train from Metapedia to Gaspé, when the sea first came into view. As we grow older, the sea loses the charm which it wears in our childhood. Bigger mysteries capture our imagination as we advance in experience.


         “Jack” was a little skye terrier with short legs and with blue-grey hair over his body and shadowing his kind, brown eyes. For thirteen years, he was one of the family circle, and well deserves to be remembered here. His little body has long rested near the Ordnance Stone in St. Matthew’s Rectory garden, Quebec, but he is still remembered and loved by the family.

Out of the Storm

         Written in 1895 after the death of my youngest brother who died in St. Luke’s Hospital, Duluth. On the night he died, there was a terrific storm. The war of the elements outside and the ebbing away, in the quiet room, of a noble young life, seemed to be linked in a subtle harmony. At dawn, I went to the window which overlooked the great Lake Superior. The end of the life had come, and the storm too had passed. I saw the morning star above the golden gates of the opening day.

Death and the Child

         Written at Drummondville, one of a group of sonnets about death. [Page 193]


         Written in Quebec and read at the meeting of the Royal Society of Canada there in 1908, when we celebrated the tercentenary of the founding of the city by Champlain. The immense and wonderful natural features of our Dominion will gradually mould our young nation more and more.

To France

         Written while I was a patient at the hospital in the beautiful Trappist Monastery at Mont des Cats, near Popperinghe, Belgium, a well known mark on the landscape in the Ypres Salient.

The Shepherd

         Written at Grindstone Island, one of the Magdalen Islands, P.Q.

To a Greek Statue Foud in Herculaneum

         Written in the Boston Museum of Art one winter’s day. Before it was quite finished, one of the attendants came and told me it was the time they closed the Museum in the winter. I said I was just composing a poem, and he kindly allowed me to finish the sestette before turning me out.

The Sailor

         Written in the cabin of our church mission boat near Mutton Bay, Canadian Labrador. My companions went on land to fish, but a drizzling rain and clouds of mosquitoes made me prefer the protection of the boat. I beguiled the time by writing the poem.

To England

         Written at La Tuque, Quebec, during the great strike in England. Whatever mistakes British Governments may make, one always feels that the inner soul of England is on the side of humanity and fair play.
         England has been the first country in the world to come out of the depression. [Page 194]


         Written on a beautiful day in May, lying on the lawn of Francis McLenan’s house at Loretteville, near Quebec. The longer I live, the more I feel how very limited is the power our senses give us of seeing the realities behind the phenomena of existence.

Last Post

         Written in the train to Montreal in 1922. I had visited the battlefields earlier in the year.

In Memoriam

         A tribute to my mother. Written in Montreal in 1883.

A Birthday

         Written at Drummondville, as were also, “In the Churchyard” and “Sorrow’s Waking”.


         Written in England in 1886, during a rapid walk of ten miles which I did from Colchester to Coggeshall, Essex, in two hours. I had gone to Colchester by train in the morning, and had travelled with a number of labourers. As I studied their faces, wrinkled by toil and years, I could see, underneath, remnants of the beauty they had worn in childhood before time had scarred them. This suggested the sonnet.

Dead Man’s Isle

         Written one winter’s day in the directors’ rooms of the Staff House at Kenogami, a paper-mill town near Lake St. John, north-west of Quebec. In the previous summer, I had visited the Magdalen Islands in the Gulf of the St. Lawrence, and a lonely island, away in the distance, was pointed out to me as “Dead Man’s Isle”. [Page 195]

Christmas Day

         Written in Quebec. Not all the hostile philosophies of the world can stifle the wonderful message that Christmas brings to the human hearts of both old and young.

Hymn to the Infant Saviour
A Carol

         The utterance of humanity before the Holy Child at Christmas.

The Hermit

         Written this Summer (1934) in the same red sandstone cave on Grindstone Island, in the Gulf of the St. Lawrence, where I wrote “On the Threshold” some years ago. Every man who withdraws into his secret heart and there lives in Communion with Nature is a hermit. Nature on the sea shore, with its tides and storms and teeming life, brings man a wonderful message.

The Crown of Empire

         Written in St. Jans Cappelle, France, in 1916. The poem was printed by Canadian Corps Headquarters in the orders for the day and also appeared in the “Morning Post.” Peace at that time seemed to be near. Alas, the war was to go on for two years longer.

The Everlasting Father

         Written at Drummondville. Nature and man reveal God. Nature witnesses to His power and majesty, and man, who was made in God’s image, reveals His love and moral nature. [Page 196]

A Song of Triumph

         Written in Drummondville in 1895, while I was exhilarated by a most laudatory review in the London “Speaker,” of my poem “Samson.”
         The rhythm and sweep of the verses is intended to be a wild chorus of all those elements in Nature which by the constant urge of evolution, have resulted in the production of man, the flower of creation, whose home is in the bosom of God.


         This sonnet was written in France, in 1916, when Montenegro was threatened with invasion, and England’s hands were already so full that she could not come to the assistance of that wild, but liberty loving land.

At the Cross Roads

         Written before leaving Drummondville, to a great friend of mine, who was a locomotive engineer and often used to allow me to enjoy the thrilling sensation of taking a trip on that part of the engine called “The Cow Catcher.”

The Key of Life

         Written in Quebec. This little play was acted in St. Matthew’s Parish Hall, on two occasions, running for four nights each time. Very charming music has been written for it by Mr. William Reed, B.A., Oxon, who won the organ scholarship at Keble College when a young man. The simple appeal which the Incarnation makes to the human heart, as the only explanation of life’s mysteries and problems, drew large audiences. [Page 197]