“Money's worth is house and land,
Velvet coat and vest.
Work’s worth is bread in hand,
Aye ! and sweet rest.
Wilt thou learn what Love is worth?
Ah 1 she sits above Sighing,
Weigh me not with earth,
Love’s worth is Love."

HAVE my readers ever seen what is called a “mind autograph album”? They used to be quite the rage twenty or thirty years ago, but are rarely seen now. There is a fashion even in such things as these. Each page of these albums contained a number of questions with spaces left for replies, which the owner of the book asked his friends and acquaintances to fill in. When all the questions were answered it was supposed to contain a kind of mental photograph of the writer—I am afraid not a very truthful one, for the answers depended so much upon the mood in which the person happened to be, merry or sad, contented or the reverse.

I was looking over an old one of my own, which I came across to-day, filled in by my relatives and friends about twenty-five years ago. I cannot help remarking two or three things. One is, the false estimate we often put upon ourselves, as the most indolent of my friends have written industry as the good quality they most admired: those with whom number one was ever first have written unselfishness; those inclined to be hypocrites have put down truth; those of rather a niggardly disposition, generosity. And so, 1 suppose, it we are to judge these characters correctly from the book we must go by the rule of contrary.

The other thing which struck me was that to the question, “What is the sublimest passion of which human nature is capable?” the answers of everyone throughout the book was invariably the same—love. Old and young, saint and sinner, men and maidens, all have as if with one consent written the word Love.

My dear old grandfather, who filled in the first page, has indeed written ‘pure and holy Love”; and one friend has put “self-denying Love.” But is not all love that is worthy of being called love, pure, holy and self-denying. It is all that and infinitely more. It is not only the “greatest thing in the world” but the greatest thing out of the world as well, for “God is Love.” Those three words, which I repeated parrot-'ike as a child, with a very faint, if any, conception of their true meaning, have become to me in later years the very sheet-anchor of my faith and my greatest comfort; for if God is Love what can we poor sinners expect from Him but love. Can we possibly look forward with fear, after death, to an eternity of Divine Love? Does not Christ Himself try to encourage us by likening His own great Love to us to the most tender of earthly relationships, “Like as a father pitieth his children”; “If an earthly father giveth good gifts, how much more?” etc. But I am afraid you will think this is too much like sermonizing, so will proceed to tell you something of Winnie and her lover, who are proving the truth of the old song, “Oh, ’tis love, ’tis love, ’tis love that makes the world go round.”

My sister Winnie was one of those few and happy individuals who marry their first and only love. A child in years when she first met Mr. Roberts, five years before, her love had grown with her growth; starting as the opening bud of girlish romance, it had blossomed with time into the full-blown rose of woman’s love. John Roberts, her betrothed, was just the man to win a young girl’s fancy. In the first place, he was considerably older than she was, and as every one knows, juvenile maidens detest boys as lovers; then he had a distinguished-looking air, a bright, intelligent face, was well educated, and unusually well informed, for he had travelled considerably in his time. He was of a very hopeful disposition, which inclined him, as Winnie said, to be very fond of “counting his chickens before they were hatched”; but he was the possessor of the most varied stock of information I think any human brain could contain. He had always been a great reader, and is to this day the universal referee for the whole district. No matter what subject one wishes to be informed upon, “ask Mr. Roberts,” he can always tell you.

Of course he is an Englishman; strange to say, my sisters have all married Englishmen. His engagement to Winnie was now of some months’ standing, though any hint of marriage had so far been strictly tabooed by mother. She dreaded to part with her little ewe lamb. However, as from time immemorial mothers have had to resign themselves to such partings, Miss Winnie’s marriage, in the not too distant future, was a foregone conclusion. When father was taking up the government grant land for the farm, Mr. Roberts had secured a piece adjoining it of about fifty acres, and on this he intended to build a nice little house of which Winnie would be mistress. His arrival next day, as promised, was a pleasure to us all. It was by no means his first visit to the farm, and as on all former occasions he had made himself exceedingly useful, father gave a grunt of satisfaction when he saw him. and remarked, “Ah, sir! glad to see you ; just in time to help us with the oats. We’ll start in as soon as you’ve had a bit of something to eat.’ Poor Mr. Roberts! But father was not quite so bad as his word ; he gave them a little grace by taking forty winks after dinner, and while I washed the dishes the lovers escaped for a ramble through the woods; and all the oats cut by Mr. Roberts that afternoon, as Benny jokingly remarked at the tea table, “could be put in your eye.”

As night drew on a serious difficulty presented itself to my mind. “Where was our visitor going to sleep?” It was impossible for him to come under the “incubus.” We had no other place except the little shed over the cook-stove at the back. I called Winnie aside and consulted her on the matter. “Oh,” she said, “he won’t mind sleeping outside; the weather is warm.” “Outside!” I cried, “what! on the bare ground? “No,” she said, “on a board. He has often done it; he would as soon sleep outside as inside.” And so it proved, for soon after ten o’clock that night he politely wished us good-night and retired to the open. Next morning, on looking out, I saw a long plank with one end resting on a stump. “What is that?” I asked. “Oh,” said Winnie, laughing, “that is Mr. Roberts’ bed. Doesn’t it look comfortable?” However, as he stoutly declared, on being questioned, that he had slept well and been extremely comfortable, I forbore further comment.

My happy holiday was now drawing rapidly to a close. When Sunday came, father said he would take me, after dinner, through the bush some three or four miles to see Mr. and Mrs. Spencer, who had been his nearest neighbors when he was at Dale End. So far I had not done much walking through the bush. Winnie and I had contented ourselves with short excursions into the woods bordering our clearing. Father warned me before starting not to put on anything which would tear, and to wear my thickest boots, but little did I dream what I was going to encounter. We crossed the clearing in the burning sun and then entered the woods, glad of the welcome shade. We had not gone far before we came plump upon our lovers, seated upon an old log, Winnie looking as pretty as a picture in her blue print dress, for all the world like a bunch of forget-me-nots against the dark green moss; Mr. Roberts, hat thrown aside, gasing at her with admiring eyes. Father’s significant “Humph!” and my sly laugh brought the color into both their faces, but ours was only a momentary intrusion; we left them to their bliss and soon disappeared from sight.

Father went ahead of me, partly to clear the way, and I did my best to struggle on in the rear. But, oh! preserve us! what a route! Now clambering over huge fallen logs, now sinking knee deep in soft moss and rotten wood, ducking under branches, jumping swampy places, breathlessly calling out to father to stop a minute and let me catch up to him, hot, exhausted, mosquito-bitten, I thought the journey would never end. Father seemed to find his way by chips taken out of the trees, which he called blazes, but I began to fear we were surely lost. "You said three or four miles,” I ventured to remark, making a rush to catch up to him; “but surely we have walked six or seven already: the trees don’t seem quite so thick just here, though.”

“Thick here!” he exclaimed, “why you are on the government road, and have been for the last twenty minutes.”

Mercy on us! I hung my head abashed; such ignorance after two weeks in Muskoka, not to recognize a government road when I was actually walking on it. I wisely refrained from further speech, and before long we arrived in sight of a snake fence, the boundary of the Spencer clearing.

Mr. Spencer was an Englishman of good family who had come out soon after his marriage, and had been in Muskoka seven or eight years. He had already a family of five or six sturdy boys and girls growing up round him, and some of these were quick to spy us as we climbed the rail fence and rushed towards us, making a vigorous onslaught on my father, for he was one of their prime favorites. They seized on him bodily and marched him towards the house, but before we reached it Mr. Spencer, in his shirt sleeves and big straw hat, came out to meet us. He gave us both a most cordial welcome, and took me in to introduce me to his wife.

She was thoroughly English-looking, fair and rosy, with a bright, happy face which did not look as if she had suffered much by “roughing it in the bush.” She could tell some tales of hardship, though, I have not the slightest doubt. It is wonderful what people did go through in those days.

I was talking to a lady last summer, and she was telling me of her first experience in Muskoka. nearly forty years ago, out Bracebridge way. She said they could obtain nothing any nearer than Orillia, and then were obliged to take just what they could get. She arrived in June, her husband having come a month or two ahead to get the house built. She said they managed all right through the summer, but when winter came they had no stove, so her husband started for Orillia to buy one. He was only able to get a little parlor cook stove, and paid a big price for that. Then when he had succeeded in getting it home they did not know how to put it up. They cut a hole through the logs just the height of the stove, then put on an elbow and a length of pipe and thrust it through the hole.

Of course, as the weather grew colder they had to keep more fire, and the pipes would get red-hot and set fire to the wood and moss around them. This necessitated one of them sitting with a pail of water and dipper to pour over the pipes to cool them off. One day, as her husband was doing this, an old Indian came in, and after observing him for some time, asked why they did not get more pipes and cut the hole up much higher? which solution of the difficulty, strange to say, had never entered either of their heads. They took his advice, and he assisted them to make the change, which not only added to the warmth of the room, but saved them the necessity of constantly watching the fire. We may “live and learn,” you see, even in a new country.

To return to the Spencer’s, their children beat anything I have ever seen for size and vigor —such limbs, such lungs, such untiring strength; even the baby, eight months old, stood up in his solid wooden cradle, and actually rocked himself with such an amount of force that my heart was in my mouth as I watched him. Nothing seemed to disturb Mrs. Spencer, though. I suppose she was too well accustomed to the racket. She maintained her tranquillity through it all, and went around preparing the tea without taking the slightest notice.

The furniture was plain and strong. I observed the chairs and some other articles were hung up on nails against the walls. I asked father, in a low voice, the meaning of this. “Why, to keep the children from smashing them all, to be sure.” I was more awe-struck than ever. By this time the tea was nearly ready, and I discovered I was most ravenously hungry, and began to look with keen interest at what was being placed on the table. There was a big jug of milk and a pot of tea, two large loaves, a pat of butter, a big dish of lettuce, and last, but not least, an immense custard pudding. The sight of this made my mouth water after our late rather meagre fare at the farm, and I impatiently awaited the summons to the table. At last everything was ready, the chairs handed down, the children seated round, and the meal began.

I was in that condition I could have eaten anything with a relish, but I confess I had a special eye on that big custard, so it came with quite a shock when our hostess, apologizing, informed us she had been without sugar for some time, so there was none for the tea nor none in the custard. Oh, dear! what a come down; it took away my appetite. After tea was over we prepared to start for home, and Mr. Spencer, taking pity on me, kindly proposed rowing us part of the way in his boat, and then showing us a shorter and better track through the bush. In this way the return journey was made in a much easier fashion, but I shall never forget my first walk through the “Muskoka bush.” I may say just here that the Spencer family now number a round dozen, and that the pater and mater families still live and flourish.

I don't know how it is that large families seem to be the rule in Muskoka; perhaps it is owing to the bracing climate, fresh air, and absence of luxuries. Twins also abound. In one case I know of three pairs in one family. I could at this moment count up over a dozen families on our lakes ranging in number from ten to fifteen. Well, the Bible says, “Blessed is the man that hath his quiver full of them,” and there’s room enough here and work enough, goodness knows, so let them come. A Muskoka photographer tells the tale that one day a settler’s wife came to him with her eleven children to have their pictures taken. He told her what he would charge a dozen.

“Oh,” she said, “can’t you take less than a dozen?”

“Well, not usually,” he replied, with an eye to business.

“Come along, children,” said the woman, mournfully, “I’ve only got eleven yet; we shall have to come again when there’s twelve,” and they sadly went their way.

When father and I got back to the farm that night I had to prepare for my departure the next morning. I had to leave them all, and I felt dreadfully low-spirited at going; in fact, though I rarely shed tears, and am considered by my softer-hearted friends rather hard in consequence, I must confess I have never been able to leave Muskoka without a few briny drops falling into the lake over the edge of the boat which was bearing me away. But as I do not wish to part from you in too melancholy a mood, I will finish this chapter by telling you a funny incident which occurred on Saturday afternoon.

Winnie and I were busy cleaning up the shanty when Mr. Roberts came in and said, “Rover seems very hungry; I don’t believe you give him half enough to eat. Why don’t you do as I always did with my big dog—boil some potatoes and oatmeal, with all the scraps, in the big iron pot and make the poor beast a good satisfying meal? Here, give me the pot; if you’re busy I’ll do it myself. Can I take these pieces, and these?”

Collecting all the odds and ends around, he put the pot on the stove for awhile and then carried it out to the dog. A short time after Winnie said to me, “Nan, where have you put the soap? It was here a few minutes ago.” I had not seen it, and while we were making a vain search for it in every direction, Mr. Roberts again popped his head in at the door and said, “I don’t know what ails the dog, he won’t eat it now I’ve taken the trouble to make it. Just look at him.” We went to the door and looked across at Rover There he stood, gazing at the pot with a most rueful and hungry look, licking his lips, sniffing, but not taking a bite. All at once an idea seemed to strike Winnie. She ran across to the pot, knelt down and smelled it, then burst into a peal of laughing, and rolling on the grass fairly held her sides with uncontrollable mirth—she had found the soap, so had the dog!