No one knows my country, neither the stranger nor its own sons. My country is hidden in the dark and teeming brain of youth upon the eve of its manhood. My country has not found itself nor felt its power nor learned its true place. It is all visions and doubts and hopes and dreams. It is strength and weakness, despair and joy, and the wild confusions and restless strivings of a boy who has passed his boyhood but is not yet a man.
A problem for America they call us. As well call a young thoroughbred a problem because he is not yet trained and fully grown. A backward nation they call us beside our great neighbor -- this though our eleven millions have produced more, earned more, subdued more, built more than any other eleven millions in the world. A colony they have thought us though we have rebelled and fought and bled for the right to our own government and finally produced the British Commonwealth of equal nations. A timid race they have called us because we have been slow to change, because we have not mastered all the achievements nor all the vices of our neighbors.
They have not known Canada. Who but us can feet our fears and hopes and passions? How can aliens or even blood brothers know our inner doubts, our secret strengths and weaknesses and loves and lusts and shames?
Who can know our loneliness, on the immensity of prairie, in the dark forest and on the windy sea rock? A few lights, a faint glow is our largest city on the vast breast of the night, and all around blackness and emptiness and silence, where no man walks. We flee to little towns for a moment of fellowship