“The Present pales before the Past;
Who comes with angel wings?
As in a dream, I stand amidst
Strange yet familiar things.
Enough, so let us go, mine eyes
Are blinded by their tears,
A voice speaks to my soul to-day
Of long forgotten years.”

—A. A. Procter

January 11th, 1903

FIFTY-FIVE years ago to-day since my dear old father and mother were married ; fifty-five years —more than half a century—since the stalwart young tradesman, Ephraim Hathaway, was married in the old parish church of St. Mary’s, Warwickshire, England. to the buxom, rosy-cheeked, black-haired damsel. Susan Crosbie: and here am I, their eldest-born, their first Christmas-box—for 1 was born the Christmas after their marriage- -here am I, far away from the land of my birth, in the wilds of Muskoka, sitting all alone, pen in hand, gazing sadly at the falling snow-flakes which are slowly but surely loading the spreading branches of the pine-trees, till they bend sorrowfully earthward, and I see beyond them, far as the eye can reach, the lake, which in summer sparkles and ripples in the sunlight, now a vast field of ice, thickly covered with the same fast-falling snow

The good father and mother, w'here are they? Alas! their bodies are both quietly resting under the same snowy covering. For long years the talk had been of their “golden wedding-day” the glad family gathering we were to have on that great day—parents, children, grandchildren—but only one short year before that day dawned the dear mother laid aside all her earthly toils and cares, and slipped away from the fond embraces of her loved ones to a fairer land, with Christ, which is far better. A few more months and our father joined her there, and we knew for the first time what orphan meant; and though it was late in life to learn the lesson, it came to us none the easier for that. Keen was the pang, bitter the knowledge that henceforth we must walk this world alone—no more wise fatherly counsel, no tender motherly comfort for us in this life—and though time s healing hand has gently touched our aching hearts, the void is still there, and in our hours of trouble an4 sadness our spirits yearn for the father and mother who for a little while have left us behind. Thank God, only for a little while. But, reader, methinks I hear you say this is a sad beginning for a book. Ah! but don’t you remember how often tears and laughter meet in this old world of ours ; so have patience, my friend, and I will venture to predict that, if you have the courage to follow me through the pages of my story, you shall have smiles as well as tears, jest as well as earnest, and many a hearty laugh, I hope, we shall enjoy before we part.

And now, why am I going to write this book? First and foremost of all reasons, to tell you of Muskoka. Muskoka! the land my parents loved, and I love, too. Muskoka! which I have chosen for my home, the place I mean to live in till I die. Muskoka ! concerning which I have come to the conclusion (after having travelled in my lifetime north, south, east and west) that it is the dearest spot on all God’s earth.

No wonder people come from afar to see Muskoka! No wonder, having once seer, it, that they come again year after year, and never tire of its infinite variety of beauties. The very air you breathe is as the breath of life to the weary soul; it seems fairly to intoxicate like new wine, and you draw it in (pure, fresh laden with the breath of the pines) in deep, deep draughts, for the pure delight of breathing.

Muskoka ! the very name seems a charm. I remember, some years ago when on a visit to London, England, dining at the house of a friend. I chanced to say in the course of conversation the word Muskoka, “Oh!” called out a lady from the other side of the table, “what a pretty name; say it again.” “Muskoka,’’ I repeated, and I heard her after the dinner was over softly murmuring to herself, “Muskoka.’’

How much sweeter, then, the name to those who know and love the place! Ah ! there is music in the very sound. But there lies a great gap between the. time when I commence this story and the present year of our Lord 1903, and as I want to trace the history of that young couple who plighted their troth in the old church at Warwick I must as briefly as may be acquaint my readers with the most important facts which filled in the intervening years.

My father was the second son of James Hathaway and Ann, his wife, who had resided, and their ancestors before them, for many a long year at the little town of Stratford-on-Avon, the home of Shakespeare. My grandfather was a timber merchant, and h:s eldest son joined him in that business, but my' father had been apprenticed to the dry goods, or drapery, as they call it there, and after his marriage set up a draper’s shop n the High Street, Stratford. Here I was born, as 1 told you before, the Christmas following their marriage, and was named Ann, after my dear old grandmother. Here were also born in the order named, my sisters Bet and Susan, followed by the first boy, my brother Joe. When I was about six years old my father was taken very ill, and the doctors who were called in did not appear to be able to do him much good. For one thing, they could not agree as to what ailed him, but they all agreed (and thereby showed their wisdom) that what he needed was an out-door life, fresh air and exercise. They declared that shop keeping did not suit his constitution, and that if he wished to live out half his days ht had better give it up. Ah, dear me! what thousands of people then are in this world who would take a fresh lease of life by following the simple prescription of these doctors.

Well, of course, there followed upon this verdict a lot of family consultation, and after a great deal of calk it was at last decided that my father should be made into a farmer. But first he had to learn how to farm, and it was thought best that he should, in the first place, take a very small farm and experiment on that, then afterwards he might go into it more boldly. Thus it carne about that, soon after I had passed my sixth birthday, we removed from Stratford into North Wales with all our belongings. The farm m> father had decided upon was near Carnarvon and close to the seashore; the house on a hill faced inland, environed with distant mountains, Snowden with its white peak plainly visible above the rest. Here we lived for the next four years, and my father not only gained a knowledge of farming, but, what was more important by far, health and strength for the future. Here my youngest sister, our pretty little blue-eyed Winnie, was born, and here, too. I think, was born in my own heart the intense love I have for Nature in all her forms. The sea, the mountains, the woods, the fields, everything around me I revelled in and enjoyed.

Ah! the truth of the trite old saying, “God made the country, but man makes the town.” At the end of the four years for which he had leased the Welsh farm, my father returned with his family into Warwickshire and rented a much larger farm, about ten miles from Stratford. and here we spent the next ten or eleven years of our lives, bringing me to the mature age of twenty-one. Here was born my youngest brother, our little Benjamin, who rejoiced in the euphonious nick-name of the “Bab” till he was more than twelve years of age. I must tell you an anecdote just here. Not many years ago a gentleman called to see me in Toronto, a complete stranger, as I thought, but he introduced himself as the youngest son of a neighbor of ours in Warwickshire, who had, been a great friend of my father's at the time we lived there. After some conversation and mutual enquiries concerning the several members of our respective families, he burst out with, “and how’s the Bab?’”

The old familiar name, which had not been spoken by any of us for long, long years, brought back a flood of recollections. “Oh!” I replied, laughing, “the ‘Bab' is an old married man with lots of ‘Babs’ of his own, away in Muskoka.” You may hear of some of them, my readers, before this story is concluded.

But to return to the- original “Bab,” our little “Ren,” he was a beauty, but he was also a sadly spoilt little boy. Father, mother, children, servants, were all his obedient subjects. He was “king of the castle” in very truth. A visitor who was staying with us when the “Bab” was about four years old, and who was a bit of a wag in his way, astonished my parents by suddenly asking them at the dinner table one day why they had not called him Moloch instead of Benjamin? “And why’ should we have done that?” said mother, looking surprised. “Because all the children were sacrificed to him.” aptly replied the guest, much to our amusement, though mother herself did not appear to see much fun in the joke.

My sister Bet was devoted to the “Bab,” and always constituted herself his special champion and protectress; and so, dear old girl, she has remained until this present day. Though she may in her inmost heart have occasionally to confess that her beloved Benjamin is not entirely free from every human frailty, yet let any one dare to hint such a thing in her presence, lo! the unhappy individual is squashed flat as a pancake in a moment; before you could say “Jack Robinson,” as mother used to say.

Perhaps now would be as good a time as any to give you a few of the leading characteristics of our family band; afterwards you will get better acquainted with both them and their peculiarities.

To begin with, I have always thought it the greatest pity in the world that I was born before my sister Bet, just sixteen months before, to be strictly accurate. You see, Bet was “born to rule,” and rule she did, by hook or by crook, every man-jack of us. Now, if she had been born the eldest I should meekly have submitted to my fate, and have become, in all probability, a most obedient subject to this queenly “Elizabeth”; and, though meekness is not by any means a strong trait of the Hathaways, my proud spirit would have submitted to the yoke without that burning sense of injustice which the continual brooding over those sixteen months of seniority caused in my soul. Anyway, I can only repeat, and all the junior members of the family will bear witness to the fact—Bet RULED.

Of course it was for our good, as she will tell you to this day if the subject is mentioned, and as I grew older and wiser I quietly gave up the struggle, and philosophically, or for the sake of peace and quietness, submitted my will to hers. A remark which our minister made in his sermon one Sunday morning greatly helped me to this wise conclusion. He was speaking of children and of their management He said, “If you will take notice, in every family there is a 'Bismarck.’ It may be the eldest or youngest, a boy or a girl, but you will, find, if you observe carefully, there is generally one ruler and the others have to fall into line sooner or later.” Now Bet happened to be seated next to me in the family pew when this pointed home-truth was uttered. I gave her a kick on the near shin with my heel which made her jump, and she assured me solemnly, as we were walking home, that she would bear the mark of that kick till her dying day. There is something else will stick to her till her dying day, and that is the name “Bismarck,” affectionately shortened by her subjects to “Bizzy” when very good-humored. This is enough of Bet for the present.

We will now proceed to Sue and Joe. These were the two who most resembled my mother; they were plump and inherited Her beautiful rosy complexion. Sue has never lost tier roses, ever, now. She was the pretty one of the fan My, but a great tease. She had lovers before she entered her teens, and nearly tormented them to death Joe was a tease, too, full of fun. He was of a heavier build—strong and hearty. Joe and I always got on well together as children, and I counted it as a great compliment when he said to me one day very seriously, “Nan, if you were not my sister I would marry you.”

Next came our little Winnie—our “Welsh woman,” as we called her. being born at Carnarvon; as pretty and sweet a maid as you would meet in a day's march, but with a sharp little tongue of her own, and ever-ready wit, which finds out the weak points in everyone’s armor, and shoots her small darts with a very sure aim. I don’t think I need refer to the “Bab” again at present.

1 must not forget to tell you what mother said of us, though, that, without exception, we had the strongest wills of any children she had ever met with, and such “gifts o’ the gab” as we all possessed she never did see. Poor mother! she had something to endure with us in our young days. As for myself, the eldest of our family group, I think the less said the better. You know the story of the ugly duckling, only the swan has never developed in me. maybe never will.

As we grew older of course my father’s expenses began to increase, and the revenue from the farm did not increase in proportion, indeed; though he gained health by taking to farming, he lost money. The rents in England at that time were very high, all the profits appeared to go into the landlord’s pocket. About this time, too, commenced a period of depression, bad crops, bad weather, which year after year seemed to get worse. I expect it was this which first caused my father, like many another, to turn his eyes in the direction of the “Golden West, where land could be had for the asking,” and where, to judge by the pamphlets issued by the emigration companies, and sent broadcast through the land, “Everything is lovely, and the goose hangs high.” It was now about the beginning of the seventies, and the tide of emigration from England was setting strongly westward. “Going to America” was the common topic of conversation, and so my father caught the fever like the rest, and continued losses on the farm helped to feed its flame, till he made up his mind to cross the ocean and see for himself what this famous land was like. He was a very cautious man, and would not think of moving his family till he had some idea of where he was moving them to; besides my mother was very strongly averse to any thought of change. She and my father were approaching middle age, and it is as hard as uprooting an old tree to move anyone in advanced life. However, he was so strongly tent on at least seeing the new land that at last a compromise was effected between them. He should go first alone, and if after visiting the country he still thought it advisable to move, mother would give in and we would all go.

This programme was carried out, and in the month of August, 1870, father sailed from Liverpool for New York, intending to visit Canada. He spent about six weeks going around this country. He visited Niagara, Toronto, Hamilton, Barrie, and came as far North as the Georgian Bay, but did not settle definitely on any spot.

He kept a very interesting diary while he was travelling around here, and sent it home to us in England in weekly instalments. Great was the excitement when these arrived. The precious pages, after being read and re-read at home, were sent round to friends in the village, and then made a wider circuit through the post. I have some of them in my possession still, one with his impressions of Toronto, which I, when reading, had little thought would be my home for so many years. he said he liked Toronto, it was the most comfortable English-looking place he had struck yet, but he said it was very flat, “you could see over the whole city if you stood on an office stool in the street”; that no one could lose their way, for the streets were all straight and crossed each other in squares, making the city look like a large patch-work quilt; but it was bright and clean looking, and had some fine buildings. He mentions Osgoode Hall and the University amongst others. Thus was our far-famed city of Toronto described to us for the first time.

When my father returned, in the beginning of October, he had fully decided it would be best for us to emigrate, so he proceeded forthwith to make arrangements for leaving the farm the following spring, and starting life anew in the far-off land of Canada.