Nova Scotia and Cape Breton 
     
     ' may be termed the sea-walls of the 
     
     Maritime Provinces, for they are on the 
     
     outer edge or Atlantic front where they 
     
     receive the first violent shock of the 
     
     turbulent rollers that later sweep into 
     
     ,, the Gulf and inner waters with rapidly 
     
     lessening force, spent and defeated after 
     
     their struggle with the giant headlands 
     
     of granite. 
     
    

    
     As would naturally be expected, the scenery gradually changes 
     
     as Quebec and Northern New Brunswick are left behind, not in the 
     
     sense that it deteriorates, however—it simply alters its character. 
     
     There are districts, such as the VVentworth Valley, that have become 
     
     famous for their loveliness; and, as is now well known, Cape Breton 
     
     has a wild and rugged beauty~like to that of the Scottish 
     
     Highlands—that gives it a first place in the estimation of many. 
     
     Indeed, in relation to travel interest generally, it is remarkable 
     
     what great variety or diversity 
     
     of scene is found in going from 
     
     one part to the other of the Mari- 
     
     time Provinces. It may truly be 
     
     said that each province has its own . _. 
     
     distinct features of beauty, and those 7 
     
     who go to one district for the moun~ 
     
     tains will have their counterpart in 
     
     others who will seek the sea and 
     
     the open shore. 
     
    
   
   
    
       
     
    
   
   
    
       
     
    
   
   
    
     Over the cool green wall of waves advancing 
     
     Glistens a crested line of feathery foam, 
     
     Till along the beach the billows scatter, glanring 
     
     A mist of spray as over the waters comb, 
     
     Then fades the white-capped crest all slowly sinking 
     
     \Vhere silent, shadowy sands are ever drinking, drinking. 
     
    
   
   
    
     Over the sea, miles out, a ship is riding, 
     
     Threading the ocean paths with oaken keel, 
     
     And under her bow the baffled waves are sliding 
     
     As over her sails the rising breezes steal, 
     
    

    
     And in her wake a foamy track is lying 
     
     As northward far she sails still flying, flying. 
     
    
   
   
    
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