Did it ever occur to you that the Creator may have left this little sea-girt peninsula until the last? That He may have reserved for it many of the treasures of His work shop? That after He finished His great masterpiece He may have spent aeons in moulding those features of this Province which possess such delicacy of beauty, such subtlety of charm that, travel the world over, we find them unexcelled, and without peer?

Did you ever think that when this world was coming out of chaos the Creator might have set aside ever so little of the congealing mass upon which to imprint His own special design? Have you not thought of the Divine Hand pressing a finger upon the soft clay, and behold, a valley here, another there? Have you not seen in the wonderful contour of hills and mountains of this land the Divine imagery of what hills and mountains should be?

Have you never heard in the babble of its brooks and the murmur of its tides and surge of its surf, the music of a Divine choir which sang praises while the Creator worked? Have you never yet heard through the forest, through the orchards, over fields and meadows, the Breath that gave it life?

Did it never seem strange to you that this is a land without tempest, or flood, or drought, or gale or pestilence; and if you did, did you ever think that the reason may be, because it is God's land?

Horatio C. Crowell