"Now if anybody wants to feel above me, I look at it in this light, and philosophize on it this way:  It probably does them some good, and it don t do me a mite of harm, so I let ’em feel. I have always made a practice of it. Because somebody feels as if they was better nor me—that don’t make ’em so; if it did I should likely get up more interest in the subject, but it don’t. It don’t make them a mite better, nor me a mite worse, so I let ’em feel, for what harm does it do anyway.’”—Samantha Allen.

FOR the past few years the population of Muskoka has been gradually dividing itself into two classes—tourists and settlers, otherwise capital and labor, pleasure and toil, butterflies and bees, whichever you like to call them. The tourists we may liken to the butterflies, because they flock in upon us with the summer sunshine and the flowers. The hard- working settlers are like the bees, because they gather their honey with busy toil in the hot sun and store it away for the cold winter days. Between these two classes there is a great gulf fixed. It seems to come naturally to the pleasure-loving tourist to look down with a kind of pity on the hard-working settler, and it seems just as natural for the hardworking settler to look down on the giddy tourist; and so, 1 suppose, it will remain to the end of the chapter. One thing is sure, each class would be very badly off without the other. If the busy little brown bees of settlers had not these lovely “tourist blossoms” from which they gather their honey, where would their winter supply come from? Do they not obtain it from these lovely American orchids and roses, these English violets and pansies, these Canadian lilies and daffodils, who come to us under the bewitching name of “tourist,” and whose perfume is so sweet.

The very name of tourist has a charm in Muskoka; even the sunburnt settler children look forward with delight to the time of their arrival and burst out of the little schoolhouse singing:

“The tourists are coming, hurrah! hurrah!”

Every year that passes seems to bring these tourist blossoms and butterflies a little earlier, and they linger later in our midst. This region has so many charms for them that they are loth to depart and anxious to return.

It used to be, in years gone by, tourists were scarce in the early springtime—hardly one to be found before July. Perhaps it was the “deadly mosquito” and “fierce black fly” they feared, but now you may find them as early as May-day, and in June there is quite a goodly showing The summer cottage" are opened up, the snowy curtains once more flutter from the open windows, the flags are hoisted, the hammocks swung, and everything proclaims that summer is here, and once more the “tourist” has taken possession of the land.

Isn’t it wonderful? I appeal now to any of you who are in the habit of coming up here year after year to spend your summers. Isn’t it wonderful how rapidly the houses are increasing on these lakes? They appear to be springing up like mushrooms on every island and point.

You can, as you are lying lazily in your boat out on the lake, count at least a dozen of them in sight without raising your head, and if “variety is the spice of life,” Muskoka is well flavored in the matter of these summer abodes, for there are scarcely two of them alike. There is an endless variety as regards shape and size, which should suit every taste, and, like the mothers at a baby show, each one thinks their own the prettiest.

Look as you come down the Indian River now, after passing. Port Carling. Why, the people will soon be shaking hands with their neighbors across from their verandahs, and don't the cottages look pretty as you are gliding past them in the boat, with their bright-colored flags and awnings, their shady verandahs, their pretty occupants waving their handkerchiefs as you pass? And then the quaint Indian names, in many cases marked out on the rocks so that everyone can read. Or go at night, when the stars are shining and the houses lit up; every light, both earthly and heavenly, doubled by its reflection in the shining water.

What rapture, then, for you, young man, with your boat drifting slowly along, and the lady you love facing you in the starlight, her dark eyes looking love into your own. How many times in the future when you have returned to the city, and are once more in your office leaning wearily over your desk, will these scenes of enchantment arise before your eyes, and you will heave a sigh at the thought of those past hours of bliss. Yes, Muskoka in summer-time is a perfect elysium for lovers. And what an ideal place for the honeymoon! I think this latter fact is getting to be pretty generally known, and happy bridal couples are no strangers in the land. I have even heard of bridal chambers reserved for their special use at some of the larger hotels.

One bride gave me a very laughable account of her arrival at the Prospect House. She was a bright, lively girl, a friend of mine, who had married a widower with one son—a tall young fellow of seventeen. She was married in Toronto quietly one morning, but of course got the usual shower of rice as she entered the carriage to drive to the station. They went entirely alone to the Muskoka express, as she was very anxious not to be known as a bride. She thought she could pass for an old married woman, and the bridegroom being considerably older than herself, though a very line-looking man, she thought would aid the deception. But how is it and why, can you tell me, that the secret can never be kept? Even the porters on the cars, she said, all looked at them with a peculiar smile. Perhaps it was their guilty consciences which made them suspicious. She said on arriving at the hotel and being shown to her room she spread out a newspaper on the floor and, carefully, as she changed her dress> shook every grain of rice from her clothes, for rice is a terrible betrayer. Still, when they descended to the dining-room for supper she noticed there was quite a flutter of excitement and every face seemed turned in their direction, making her feel very much afraid the cat was out of the bag. Nevertheless, she put on a very straight face and by her manner endeavored to put them off the scent. The next morning, after breakfast, as she ran up to her room for her hat, the chamber-maid who was at work there, wishing to be friendly, remarked, “Muskoka is a lovely place for spending the honeymoon, ma’am.’’ “Honeymoon!” said my friend, turning on her with a look of astonishment, “what do you mean?” “Why, aren’t you a bride, ma’am?” answered the girl, rather taken aback. “Bride!” she replied in a tone of scorn, “what are you talking about?” and then breaking out into a merry laugh, “Why, we have a son nearly seventeen.’’ At this moment her husband appeared at the door. “Haven’t we a son nearly grown up?” she asked him. “Yes.” he said, and the maid, very much abashed, walked off, saying, "Well, I must tell them all different downstairs, for everyone of ’em believes you’re only just married.”

My friend found out at the next meal that every spark of interest on the part of these fellow -guests had vanished, and they were allowed to enjoy the bliss of becoming objects of perfect indifference to ,the curious crowd.

But to return to the tourists. If you want to judge in some degree of what the summer exodus from the city to Muskoka has become, plant yourself any morning in July, between the hours of ten and eleven in the waiting-room of the Union Station, Toronto, and watch the rush of passengers through the doors as the stentorian voice of “Bob” Harrison calls out the “Muskoka Express.” See the worried, worn-out mothers who have been up since dawn preparing children and baggage for their yearly flight. See them come, dragging along their youthful progeny, one of whom has the family cat in a basket, and another is dangling the canary in its cage. See those gaily-dressed young damsels, giggling and laughing, laden with lunch baskets, fruit and novels-There is a pater familias with the tickets for his family, pushing through the crowd, two of his boys with fishing-rods and air-guns pressing on behind. Behold the worm merchant peddling his wares in little tin pails, at seventy-five cents each- warranted to contain a hundred, all alive and wriggling. Muskoka has fostered a new industry, you see. There is an invalid, sad-looking and pale, bound for the Sanitarium. May she find health and strength there. Here is a little fellow, with sand pail and shovel, crying because he has loosed from his mother’s gown in the crush. Ah! here she is, red and perspiring, returning to look for him, so “dry your eyes, my little man.” Here’s a party of young dudes carrying valises, which I doubt not are stuffed full of fancy stuped coats and white duck pants, with which, when donned, they intend making sad havoc amongst the summer girls on the lakes.

Let us fellow the crowd downstairs and see the piles of baggage being loaded on the cars—cases of provisions, blankets and bedding, trunks, valises, boilers, tubs, pails, cradles, perambulators, every mortal thing you could think of—all bound for the “Muskoka Express.”

Among these tourists the American element is getting more and more predominant every year; the Stars and Stripes is everywhere to be seen. Through trains from Buffalo and Niagara are now run every day during the season to Muskoka Wharf, from whence the pleasure-seekers diverge on their varied routes. large numbers of Americans, too, are buying islands and land here and putting up houses for themselves and families, where they can entertain their friends and spend the .summer months in true country fashion. These Americans, so far as I can ascertain, are well liked by our settlers. They give employment to great numbers of them, are liberal with their money, straightforward in their dealings, and pleasant and unaffected in their manners. Many of them come from the Southern States in order to escape the intense heat of July and August, and they declare Muskoka to be a perfect paradise of coolness and refreshment; not that we don’t have hot days here, very hot days, but the evenings are invariably cool and pleasant.

I think the Grand Trunk Railway has done a great deal during the last few years to advertise this district in the States, and we are now beginning to reap the benefit of their efforts, and will more so, I think, in years to come.

It is a pretty sight when the “Muskoka Express” runs down to the wharf and disgorges herself of her living freight, to see. once more, the stately Medora, dear to the heart of every dweller in Lake Joseph, the Nipissing, the Islander, the Kenosha, all waiting patiently for our advent, besides half a dozen or more private steam yachts (the number of these is fast increasing, and some of them are very handsome and beautifully fitted up); and then the lake, so darkly, deeply blue, the bright sky overhead, the fresh pure air we inhale, all seem to combine to raise our spirits to the highest pitch, and we crowd into the dining room when we hear the welcome sound of the dinner-bell, and sit down with light hearts and happy faces to enjoy the bountiful repast. 1 am afraid you will think I am always talking about eating; nevertheless, I must confess that I always think the dinner on the boat the pleasantest part of the trip. On a fine, warm day, when the windows are thrown open, you can gaze as you eat at the moving panorama of loveliness outside, feasting body and soul at the same time.

1 ell me, if you can, what is there to excel it? And I must not forget to mention the pretty, attentive waitresses in their spotless attire, supplying all your wants with such deftness and grace. Where does the Muskoka Navigation Company manage to get all those bright, good-looking damsels? They must have some secret source of their own, for the supply never seems to fail.

When we have finished dawdling over our meal, and are feeling supremely happy and comfortably full, we ascend to the deck and sink into one of those big red rocking-chairs, to look around us and try to count the number of new houses since we were here last. It is not long before we arrive at “Beaumaris,” which will soon be a town if it keeps on increasing at its present rate. Then follows Port Carling, where the usual afternoon crowd has gathered to meet the boats. The wharf and the wide steps are crowded with sun-burnt, happy-looking mortals, sitting and standing; laughing and joking boys with hats of many colours, like Joseph’s coat, studded with feminine soubriquets (the latest fad); girls with immense sun bonnets, or peaked caps, dresses all colours of the rainbow, appearances as varied as the cottages they dwell in. Behold the Muskoka tourist in all his glory!!

Now for my settler friends, who will think I am quite forgetting them, these little brown bees, these busy toilers of the whole year round.

I have just been reading Mrs. Moody’s book, “Roughing it in the Bush,” with which many of my readers may be familiar. Of course, it deals with a much earlier day than ours, dating, I think, between the years 1830-40, which is more than thirty years previous to out arrival in this country. I cannot but think, though, she must have been very unfortunate in the class of settlers she encountered when she first took up her abode in the backwoods. I can assure you that, fortunately, the Muskoka settlers cannot claim the slightest relationship with them. My experience has been, happily for me, the exact reverse of hers.

The Muskoka settlers are mostly respectable English and Scotch families, who have come out to this country, as my own father did, in order to escape from the high rents and unjust restrictions of the “old land,” and to endeavor to make homes for themselves and earn a decent living in the new. I am only too well aware that many of the older ones, nay, nearly all of them, have suffered severe hardships, toiled without ceasing, borne the heat and burden of the day without complaint. But what matters that if, blest with contentment and good health, their homes and land are their own; every hour they spend in labor, every dollar they lay out, goes towards the improvement of their own homes, and not into a landlord’s pocket.

I know the land in Muskoka is for the most part rocky and rough, but everywhere there are patches fit for cultivation, and at the present time a great and increasing demand exists for everything that can be grown thereon. “The good time coming” is plainly in view for the Muskoka settler. If the summer population increases at the same ratio in which it has in the last few years, I see no reason why every settler in ten years from now should not be a wealthy man. So take courage, my hard-working fellow settlers, the time of prosperity is at hand.

Some years ago, while visiting a well-to-do farmer in the township of Blanshard, five miles from the town of St. Mary’s, I was struck with the number of handsome, well-built houses which lay a little back from the road as we drove along. I remarked to my friend, the farmer who was driving me, “The folks must be pretty well off here to build such houses.” "Well,” he said, “there’s a good many years of toil behind most of them. Look there,” pointing with his whip, “see that old log shanty there, down in that hollow; that’s where Mr. used to live, and now look at his house on the hill,” pointing to a handsome brick residence; and for the remainder of our drive he amused himself with showing me, as he passed the various farms which lay along the road, the old house and the new standing in such striking contrast, the old one, in most cases, converted into wood-shed or barn. He also informed me, with a chuckle, that the pity was, the old folks had lived so long in the old shanty that they did not take very kindly to the new mansion, and that they stuck to the kitchen with great: tenacity, rarely using the fine front rooms, the back door being invariably used as the entrance. “ Well,” he concluded, “the young ’uns are growing up, and they, having bin eddicated up to date, will mos’ likely set in the front parlor, and walk in at the front door.” Most likely they will, my friend; at least, it is to be hoped so.

Well, I believe in the future we settlers in Muskoka will have just such fine houses to live in, and we shall rejoice in the possession of not only comforts but luxuries. We shall have furnaces and hot-water radiators, instead of stoves; the water will be brought into our houses instead of having to be dipped from the lake; we shall have gas in every room, and say farewell to the old coal-oil lamp. In fact, I think everything good for the human race is journeying rapidly Muskoka-ward.

I suppose I may be forgiven by the sterner sex if, before I close this chapter, I just say a word in praise of the Muskoka women. They have shared nobly in the toils and privations of their husbands and sons. Patiently and uncomplainingly they have set themselves to work to make the best of their surroundings, and have labored hard to improve them; they have kept house on very short commons without murmuring, they have been true helpmeets in every sense of the word. I would like to quote here a few lines from the speech of Lady Aberdeen on “Women in Canada” given before the Colonial Section of the Society of Arts, in London, a short time since. She said: There cannot be too much said about the beauties, the attractions, and the rich promise of life in Canada; but its present position, as I have said before, has been won by the unremitting toil of its pioneer settlers, and none have borne a heavier share of that toil than the young mothers, who, well educated themselves and brought up in comfortable homes, have afterwards passed through all the vicissitudes of rearing young families far away on the great lone prairies, or in the depths of the forests and mountains.

“But you will say, but what of the result; what of the women in Canada of to-day? It was only when I began to prepare this paper that I felt how rash I had been to attempt to paint the life and work of Canadian women in one brief hour.

“Perhaps I can best sum up the chief impression made upon me by very close intercourse and friendship with them for several years, official and unofficial, by one word which is much in our mouths to-day—

EFFICIENCY. French-Canadian or Manitoban, Nova Scotian, British Columbian, or the women of Ontario, they are all alike hall-marked by this stamp.

“We read the stories of the hardships and dangers endured by those earliest settlers in Canada as if they were fairy tales; but they are fairy tales which, handed down to generation after generation of children at their mothers knee, make for a high ideal of personal and patriotic duty.”