And what is home, and where? but with the ioving; Happy thou art, who ran’st so gaze on thine.”

—Mrs. Hemans.

OVER and over again, when father came down to Toronto, had I asked him to describe to me the shanty on the farm. I longed to get a picture of it in my mind. Once he said, laughingly, in reply to my persistent questioning, “Go out into the back shed, then look around, fancy it a little rougher and a little smaller and there you have it.”

Many times after he said this I stood in that shed and gazed round it, doubting, incredulous. Surely he must be joking; they could not be living in a place like that. But I discovered now there was not much exaggeration in his remark. The shanty (I fancy I see it now as we walked up the hill from the lake) was built on the side of a little blutf facing the mouth of the bay, and commanding a lovely view. It was a square low hut built of rough logs, chinked with moss and mud, the floor of uneven rough boards. A few boards on poles at the back formed a shelter for the cooking-stove.

There was one small window. I don’t think it had any glass, but a piece of netting tacked over to keep out the mosquitoes. The entrance was a low square doorway in front, which it was impossible for any one above medium height to pass through without either ducking down or bumping his head; so that most of the visitors had rather a rueful expression of countenance as they gazed round its interior for the first time. However, as there are two sides to every question, there were certainly two sides to that doorway, and the strangers forgot their bumps and stopped rubbing their bruised craniums to exclaim with delight when they turned round and saw the picture which that doorway framed. Never shall I forget how I feasted my eyes on its beauty that first evening. How I longed to be a great painter, that I might transfer .that lovely scene to canvas so that all the world might have an opportunity of admiring.

It was near sunset, the sky one mass of glowing tints, a lovely little wooded island lying in front of the bay bathed in the glorious light, the water like a sea of glass, reflecting every tint of the sky. But what are words? How could I describe it? I just feasted my soul, gazing silently on its loveliness till my eyes filled with tears and I had to turn away. Oh, Muskoka ! rough thou may’st be, uncultivated, rude and wild, but yet for thy magic charm of nature in all her beauty thou stand’st alone, without a peer.

Now to return to the inside of the shanty. There was a table made from a packing-case, two or three benches to match, two mattresses on one side of the room with rough home-made frames instead of bedsteads, a sheet hung between them to act as screen. On a big shelf, overhanging the beds, was stowed all the heavy old lumber, barrels, shingles, tools, nails, odds and ends of all kinds collected by my father for years, enough to fill a second-hand store. This shelf with its miscellaneous contents proved to be quite a bugbear to me during my stay. Perhaps it would be more correct to say nightmare, as I often lay awake at night in mortal dread that the shelf would give way and its whole ton or so of contents precipitate themselves upon the luckless heads of poor Winnie and myself, bringing death and destruction in their train, father and Ben did not seem at al] alarmed, though sleeping under the same incubus, and their peaceful snoring in sweet harmony (alto and bass) had a calming and reassuring effect on my nerves and would soothe me off to sleep again.

One night we had a terrific thunderstorm. We were all in bed. The lightning flashes shone through every crack in the logs and illuminated the room; the thunder was dreadful, too, and the rain came down in torrents. There is no doubt Muskoka is capable of getting up a good thunderstorm,

The days of my holiday passed all too quickly. So did the provisions. The butter melted aw ay within a week—the cakes, jam, pudding, likewise. The half ham we still held in reserve, and had hung it up high on the log wall out of the reach of our big dog Rover. It proved, on being taken down, to have attracted unto itself enough of the lower forms of animal life, in the shape of grubs, beetles, ants, etc., to have delighted the soul of an entomologist. Father said they came out of the logs, and showed their wisdom in the choice of the fittest dwelling-place, preferring good ham to decaying wood. Winnie and I were in no humor for a joke as we saw our last standby reduced by one half before it was fit for the pot. Nevertheless we had to grin and bear it.

Our bill of fare after this did not comprise much variety. We eked out the ham as long as we could, and then we came down to bread and cucumbers.

Luckily father had a prolific cucumber bed, and the Hathaway family, young and old, dote on cucumbers. So we indulged in them ad libitum—not quite, though, for father thought best to limit us to one each for breakfast, dinner and tea, for fear the supply should give out. We had no vinegar, so we just peeled them down, dipped them in salt, and ate them like you do bananas. Occasionally we added to our bill of fare a feast of huckleberries gathered off the rocks, and we had porridge, but minus sugar or milk; tea ditto.

After I got back to the city I was very fond of propounding to my friends the following conundrum (all my own invention, mind you): “Which would you rather be, in Muskoka with a tremendous appetite and very little to satisfy it, or here in the city this broiling hot weather with every luxury at command and no appetite to enjoy?” This was a poser, and often caused considerable discussion. I think, though, the first alternative nearly always gained the day.

Winnie and I spent, 1 think, about one-third of our time in the water There was a fine sandy shore, shallow for a long way out. We used to take the old boat and, holding one on each side, rock back and forth and float around by the hour, both of us attired in the scantiest of costumes, for Winnie held stoutly to the theory, “the smaller the bathing dress the more enjoyable the bathing,” a little strip of old lace curtain being her favorite get-up. She was also determined that old Rover should share our daily ablutions, and if he objected at any time, preferring a quiet snooze in the sun, she would tie her towel round his neck and bring him down to the water by main force. I can see her now, in her airy costume, flying down the rocks, the dog yelping and barking. If I had only been an artist! But alas ! as the poet says, “The loveliest rose is born to blush unseen.” So Winnie had only poor me for an admirer.

One day father had to row to Port Carling, for we were out of flour. I was eager to go, too. for I had learned to row a little; so he took me with him instead of Ben. The wind was in our favor as we went down Lake Joseph, and I remember that father cut the top off a bushy young tree and fixed it up in the boat to act as a sail. We went rushing through the water at a fine rate. We passed Port Sandfield, the scene of my troubles, and arrived in the Indian River before noon Here we called at a friend’s house, an English settler whose daughter had boarded with mother in Toronto. We had dinner here, and father left me with them and went on to the Port for the flour. On his return, about three o’clock, we started for home. But when we got out into the open lake we found the wind very strong and dead against us. At last it became so rough, the water washing into the boat, that I had to give up my oars and sit in the stern, leaving poor old dad to battle with it alone. It seemed for the next hour as if we made no progress whatever. It took all father’s strength to keep the boat in position. We were betw een "Fern-dale” and the “Eagle’s Nest,” and for about two hours we w ere trying to pass a small house which we could see away on the mainland. We took it as a landmark, and twenty times, at short intervals, father kept asking, “Have we passed it yet?” Indeed it appeared as if we never should pass it; but at last I was able joyfully to announce, "I think it is getting behind us.” I never felt more like saying “Get thee behind me, Satan,” than I did to that poor unconscious cot. However, we reached, at last, a more sheltered part, behind an island, and took a rest for a few minutes, for poor father was quite played out.

By good fortune we had a big can of milk on the boat, which our friends had given us to take home, knowing that we had no cow. This was a godsend, indeed, just then, for dad drank freely of it—finished it, in fact, before we reached home, and had to take to drinking water for the last mile. After we reached Take Joseph the wind dropped, the moon rose, the stars shone out, we forgot our troubles, and the rest of our journey was calm and peaceful. It was late when we got home, hungry and tired it is true, but in a contented frame of mind, and quite ready to do justice to the supper which Winnie had ready for us.

N.B.—We never mentioned the milk. Dad thought their disappointment would be too great, and, as he said, “What the eye didn’t see the heart wouldn’t grieve for.”

I forgot to tell you that wc found letters awaiting us at Port Carling. A long epistle from Bet, full of injunctions and cautions, bemoaned her own fate that she could not be with us. Then I had one from my employer, graciously giving me leave to stay until the following Monday, instead of returning on Saturday; two more days of bliss for me. Then Winnie had a letter from Mr. Roberts, who was staying in Bracebridge, saying he would arrive next day to stay over Sunday. I suppose I must let you into the secret here, that Mr. Roberts and our little Winnie were lovers fond and true, so there was joy all round, and we went to bed and slept soundly in spite of the overhanging incubus.