There made a deep and lasting impression on a mind that was keenly sensitive as a photographic plate. Lie returned with a thorough knowledge of scientific medicine in general, and of ophthalmology in particular. However, he had also become greatly interested in the new fields of Bacteriology and Public Health, and found time to master all the latest ideas and techniques in these important subjects.

After returning to Winnipeg he entered partnership with Dr. Wilford Good in the practice of Ophthalmology. This partnership was a particularly happy association of two of the keenest medical minds in Canada. Good was also one of the most colorful characters in the west. He had a tremendous zest for life and the art of living dangerously. As a citizen,

as a practitioner of his specialty, as a teacher and as the Dean of the Medical School, he was enormously proficient, arid commanded the respect and admiration of everyone, by his humanity and good judgment. But the private life of Wilford Good was a joyous and unpredictable saga of adventure and comic invention. He was a vastly entertaining companion, with what Montgomery has called " a unique appreciation of wit and humor in promoting the happiness of his fellows". Although the professional partnership between Bell and Good eventually dissolved, they found such perfect rapport and exhilaration in each other's company that they remained the closest of friends.

One of my father's more fortunate failings was his complete disregard for money. The instinct to accumulate and save, which might have been inherited from his thrifty Scottish ancestors, had passed him by. He was not extravagant, and he was not envious of accumulated wealth, he was simply content with his lot. Yet his generosity was boundless, and he was an easy mark for anyone with a hard-luck story.

As Edward Montgomery once pointed out - had my father continued the practice of Ophthalmology with Wilford Good, he doubtless would have shared in the ample fortune that fell to his older partner during the ensuing twenty years. But had he done so, he would have missed the many crowded years of opportunities for public service.

In 1910, with great regret but firm determination,

my father ended his professional a coition with Doctor Good,

to become Provincial Itacteriolovist. To him the move was

 

Inevitable, and 1 am sure that the idea that he was making a serious financial blunder never entered his thoughts. He was, after all, the only man in Manitoba who knew Bacteriology; he was already teaching that subject in the Medical School; the Provincial Board of Health was badly in need of a Bacteriologist; so without hesitation he took on the job. Within a year he was not only Bacteriologist, but Epidemiologist and Chairman of the Provincial Board of Health. The remuneration for all the backbreaking labour involved was ridiculously small, but the opportunities for public service in a new and exciting field were great. My good mother, who always made the final decisions in our family, cheerfully agreed to tighten up the family belt and go along with the new venture - a venture which was to occupy the whole of the remainder of his life.

 

In 1910 my father occupied the Provincial Laboratory in the newly-constructed Medical College on Bannatyne Avenue. In the laboratory, single handed, he did all the bacteriology for

The province, as well as teaching both bacteriology and pathology

In the Medical School. He carried on the voluminous correspondence of the Department by hand, grinding out letters on trivial matters, which could have been answered by a stenographer in a fraction of the time so spent. Despite this onerous routine, my father always had time for his friends and colleagues. His lab. was a meeting place for a select group of medical cronies, who ranged from full professors to general practitioners, but who shared the easy camaradarie of men who fish, and hunt, and drink together. They were all intensely interested in the many facets of natural history, and some were more than amateurs in the field. Edward Mont¬gomery was an acknowledged authority on geology, botany and horticulture. Gordon Bell was well versed in every branch of biological research, and his knowledge of both plants and animals peculiar to the northern latitudes was unsurpassed. But above all, these men were good companions who derived much pleasure from each other's company.

On Sunday mornings, these fugitives from a church-pew would drift into the lab. and perch themselves on stools or benches, while .Gordon Bell went quietly about his work. They would exchange the medical gossip of the week, swap stories, and engage

in amiable debate about the topics of the day. Some would bring in diagnostic puzzles for Gordon Bell to solve. lie was regarded,

like his namesake, Sir Charles Hell, as a sort of medical Sherlock Holmes, who could seemingly unravel the knottiest medical pro

blems with intuitive ease. And yet he took great pains not to appear superior in his knowledge, or condescending in his attitude towards the difficulties of his colleagues. He would listen carefully to the clinical details presented, and pretend to he "completely baffled by the problem. Then he would bring forth a battered text in German, leaf through it a bit, and invariably come upon the right answer. Many years later I discovered that the marvelous vade-mecum was actually a dull and obsolete German treatise

on urinalysis.

For years, the medical cronies had discussed the possibility of finding a suitable place in the lake country of Ontario, where they could build themselves a retreat under the guise of a fishing club, and where they could foregather in the natural surroundings they loved. But their imaginings had created stand¬ards too high to match reality, and for years their search proved fruitless.

Then in 1911, my father was invited to Fox Lake, and

in a pleasant shock of recognition he realized that the long search for the ideal hideaway had ended.

The medical friends quickly banded together and acquired a choice property on the south shore of Fox Lake where the rocky road from the station ends. There was an ideal building site, situated on a small plateau 200 feet from the beach. To the right a small stream tumbled chattering into the lake, and on either side the land rose up in rocky slopes clothed in rich foliage.

By the following June the clubhouse was ready. It was constructed of peeled logs along simple lines. The huge living room was ceilinged by the sloping roof, and dominated by a massive stone fireplace. Stairs led to a gallery where beds were set out in dormitory fashion, and along the front was a broad screened porch with more beds. On the north end of the house were store rooms, kitchen, and a bedroom for the cook. This rambling structure nestled into the surroundings in perfect harmony.

No sooner had the last nail been driven, than the eager members gathered in force to celebrate the concrete realization of their dream. Most of the cronies were keen fishermen, and they quickly discovered that Fox Lake was a nimrod's paradise

                        indeed. After the first amazing catch of trout, the members agreed to name their retreat after the silver fish. And thus, the "Namaycush Fishing Club" came into being.

                       

                     

            At that time there were only three other camps around the lake, and the club members plotted to keep it that way. Among them they managed to acquire most of the choice lots, and soon, no property was available to the sort of people who rush into a new area, buy a camp site, and proceed to subdivide it and bring in their friends. These are the people who blight the shores of lakes by erecting their seedy dwellings cheek-by¬jowl, and living in the noisy, gregarious squalor known as "togetherness".

By common consent for many years the only approved methods of transport was by canoe or rowboat, and it is only in the past few years that a softer generation has introduced the spluttering outboard to move their lazy carcasses from A to B.

This, in essence, is the story of the founding of the Namaycush Club, and of the somewhat arbitrary action taken to preserve the rustic charm and peace which still pervade the lake.

 

PADDY

Any account of life at Fox Lake, however fragmentary, would be incomplete without mention of Paddy, the mayor of Tipperary.

During the year when the C. N. R. was blasting its way through the Minaki district, a sturdy Irish section-hand by the inappropriate name of William Lily, became tired of the pick and-shovel routine and decided to settle in Wade. For a token payment, he acquired several acres of sandy bush-land, close to the tracks, and proceded to clear off the trees and build a settlement called "New Tipperary". He erected a number of log shanties at strategic points on his holdings and created a garden plot for each. This settlement was founded on a strictly feudal pattern, with William Lily as the undisputed lord of the manor. He admitted selected members of his immediate family

and their spouses, on terms of benevolent vassalage, and allowed them the use of a shanty and potato plot. In order to establish himself firmly with the Station Set (five inhabitants), he married off his eldest sister to the section foreman.

As befitted his high station, William Lily owned two houses - one for summer, one for winter. When he made his bi-annual moves, he would go off fishing, while the womenfolk busied themselves, clearing out the accumulated dirt and debris from one house and trying to make the other one habitable.

The lord of Tipperary was also the proud owner of a horse and stone-boat - the only ones in the district. The horse, if met in more urban surroundings, would seem to be a fugitive from a glue-factory, but in Wade the animal had a certain sad dignity. It was afforded the most loving care by its master, who kept its gaunt carcass well curried and groomed. In summer, the horse was supplied with a raffish straw hat through which its ears protruded, and a sort of blanket of long fringe to keep away the flies. Its harness was of excellent quality, and was crowned

by a splendid horse-collar, replete with brass horns. When horse and stone-boat were duly hitched together the equipage was mildly sensational. Each evening just before train time, the stone-boat would sweep out of the road from Tipperary into the last stretch, the master braced wide-legged in the prow for all the world like Ben Hur in the last furious heat of the chariot

race.

For many reasons the squat little Irishman was the most important person in the district. Life at Fox Lake would have been quite impossible without his full cooperation. My father was quick to sense this fact and one of his first actions on arriving at Fox Lake was to pay his respects to the mayor of Tipperary. The initial meeting was an unqualified success, each man exerting his own peculiar charm upon the other, and it all ended in a noggin of Irish whiskey, and a pledge of eternal friendship.

William Lily agreed to drop his unsuitable name and be known henceforth by the family nickname of "Paddy". He was granted all the privileges of the Namaycush Club, and in return agreed to look after the interests of the club members at all times.

Paddy was no Adonis; he was built on square, solid lines, and had the kind of face impolitely described as "Irish as Paddy's Pig". The face, however, was capable of a wide and cheerful grin, and was set with a pair of twinkling eyes of lightest blue.

Although he was largely dependent upon the summer folk for his livelihood, Paddy was not for hire. Before he would agree to take you on as a client, he would carefully

Weigh the pros and cons of the agreement. If you were demand¬ing or condescending, or even mildly snooty, he would reject your pleas for help with a dignified finality; in which case your life at Fox Lake became impossibly involved in problems of transport and upkeep. But, if Paddy agreed to take you on,

You could relax in contentment. The stone -boat would meet your train and transport your luggage over the rugged road between station and lake; your house would be open and aired and sometimes, in very special cases, decorated with tiger lilies or meadow flowers. During the winter he would cut great blocks of gleaming ice and pack them in sawdust in the ice house. The wood-shed would be stacked high with neatly cut fire wood - enough to last all summer. For this peerless service, his charges were modest in the extreme, and there was no question of bribery or gifts - unless you tempted him beyond endurance with a bottle or two of good Irish whiskey.

There may be some who knew Paddy in the old days who will say that in this little thumbnail sketch I have gilded the Lily, so to speak. It is true that he had had no education, but to make up for that he had a sly Celtic wit, and the kind of intuitive wisdom and perception that is so often found in the semi-literate. He was not very clean because he firmly believed that total immersion could lead to any number of unspecified ills. About twice a year Paddy embarked on a prolonged and riotous spree that struck terror into his little community, and ended up in a period of delirium and remorse. In his cups he was boisterous and noisy, but never violent or abusive.

During his life time as local character and general factotum, Paddy contributed so much to the comfort and pleasure of the summer residents of Fox Lake, that he deserves to be remembered with gratitude and affection.

 

DONALD

One cannot think of the Namaycush Club without think¬ing of its sometime chef, steward, boatman and bookkeeper,

Donald Matheson. Donald was one of those true black highlanders, tall, wiry and ageless. His skin was swarthy, his eyes were black and his fine head was upholstered with cropped black curls. He spoke with the soft drawl of a man whose first language was

the Gaelic. He had a ready smile, and although he had a quick temper it was just a flash in the pan. All of his opinions were downright and stubborn, and he delighted to engage in fierce arguments, mostly about the iniquities of addle-headed governments, for he had mild leftist tendencies.

            He had been a veteran of the Boer War at a tender age, and shortly after the war he came to Canada to seek his fortune. He had tried his hand at a great many occupations - chef, prospector, barman, bookkeeper and bum; but always his restless spirit drove him on to something new. He was proudly independent in the obdurate manner of the highland Scot.

 

In 1912 my father encountered Donald Matheson at a time when he was hard pressed for help in his laboratory. He needed a sort of general factotum and lab. boy, but he also needed a competent technician to assist in the tremendous task of rendering a complete bacteriological service to the province of Manitoba. At the interview with Matheson, my father was pleased by his forthright manner and blunt Scottish approach. Donald said: "Ah've been looking round here and any damn fool can see there's too bloody mooch work for a man with a wooden leg to do. Ahm movin' in to help you".

So Donald moved in, and with surprising ease he mastered the technical details of preparing media, planting cultures

and making routine examinations. But he soon complained that he could not continue to do all these things without knowing what the hell they were all about. So the lab. boy and the professor embarked upon an intensive tutorial course in bacteriology. Within a few months Donald was performing at the level of a highly trained technician, and could he trusted with almost any procedure that was carried out in the laboratory. He was readily accepted into the charmed circle of friends who foregathered in the lab., and he entered into all those lively arguments and

discussions that made life bearable for the overworked bacteriologist. When the plans for Namaycush were being discussed, Donald's interest became intense, and he finally issued an ultimatum. Piddling around in a lab. was allright in the winter, but when the summer came round, he wanted to quit the city and live as a man should, in the heart of nature, where he could be alone. His considered opinion was that the club members were all nice fellows but rather dreamy types, and that they were obviously quite incompetent to run a club. Be proposed to move in and take over the fishing lodge, lock, stock and barrel, making it quite clear that he would brook no interference or meddling from the members; all they had to do was pay their dues and their club fees - he, Donald, would handle the details. And so, from June to October, Donald was placed in full charge of the club and its affairs. He was an excellent cook who knew how

to cater to the wants of outdoor men, he maintained the club in spotless order, tended the boats, and kept the accounts straight. Whenever the members foregathered for a week or a week-end, he slipped into the triple role of host, chef and club steward, entering into all the revels and discussions, without letting down his standards as a chef and a steward.

During the week when he was alone in his club, Donald was entertained by his many animal friends. On a hot afternoon if you sneaked up on the lodge, you would often see a little black bear come shambling down the path and stand on his hind legs before the kitchen window, sniffing hopefully at the blueberry pies set out on the sill to cool. You would hear Donald scolding the animal from the kitchen window - "So you're thrying to work on the sympathies of a busy man - well, its no bloody use - bung off, you useless wee black bastard, you". But finally, he would

relent and carve out a wedge of pie for the little bear. Sometimes he would talk to the whiskey-jacks and the pet squirrels in Gaelic, because he loved to speak the gutteral tongue, and, after all, the animals were more responsive to his Gaelic than were most humans.

Once a year, in early September, Donald had a week of unadulterated pleasure when my grandfather, Donald MacEwan, arrived at Fox Lake for a week of fishing. Donald MacEwan was then in his seventies, but still a mighty angler - (and a mighty

successful one, too). He was a grand old man who looked like a rosy, mischievous cheruh; but a cherub with the dignity :md

presence of a Scottish laird. To Donald Matheson, my grandfather was the perfect embodiment of a scholar and a gentleman; in other words, he had been born and reared in the highlands of Scotland, and had retained his Gaelic tongue. My grandfather spoke the Gaelic with facility and perfect intonation. He was, in fact, a great Gaelic scholar and possessed one of the finest collections of Gaelic books in Canada. Consequently, for a

week the two of them lived in a sort of highland heaven together. They would be up at five in the morning trolling the lake, and across the still water you could hear the excited lilt of Gaelic as they pursued the early-rising fish. By breakfast time they would come up the path shouting "Arise ye sluggards, shake off dull sloth, for here comes the mighty fisherman with his catch" - and to our embarrassment and chagrin (for we had angled fruitlessly the whole summer long), the early birds would produce a brace of enormous fish - enough to feed the family for days on end. After my grandfather had taken his reluctant departure, Donald Matheson would mope for days, muttering

to himself in Gaelic.

He laughed at

our doubts, and said it was just the sort of thing one would expect from a lot of half-baked amateurs, whose powers of observation were dull and myopic to say the least.

The second incident occurred during the halcyon days of August. My sister and I accompanied by two friends, decided to explore a river which ran north out of a small lake just one

easy portage from Fox Lake. This river ran a circuitous course of about ten miles, to reach a large lake which lay due north about two miles as the crow flies. It was only about ten feet

 

wide and was bordered by a wall of reeds and bulrushes. the late summer a tribe of Indians from a reservation thirty miles north of Minaki, used this river when they made their

Annual trip to Minaki where they collected their treaty money. On the trek, the Indians would shoot a deer when they were hungry, strip off the choicer cuts, and leave the rest of the carcass hanging on a tree to rot, or be devoured by wolves.

On this hot day in August, after we had paddled the ten twisting miles of river, we suddenly emerged into Onion Lake which was our destination. Just to the right of the river's mouth was a large flat rock, and on the rock was a tableau straight out of Edgar Allan Poe.

There, on a long projecting branch, hung a rotting deer carcass, its entrails spilled out on the rock, busy with flies.

On another branch, not four feet from the canoe, was an

faormous bird, which to our startled gaze looked as big as a man. It was covered by shabby black feathers, which thinned out above, to reveal a long naked neck surmounted by a huge head covered with warts,- and armed with a strong curved beak. After a split second of mutual terror, the obscene-looking bird straightened out its long neck like a snake striking at us from a pile of feathers; it opened its beak, and ejected a thin jet of foul vomitus in our direction. At the same time, it unfurled its enormous wings made up of untidy black feathers, revealing a wing spread that seemed as long as our canoe. Then the wings began to flap awkwardly and desperately, as the ungainly bird took off. We sat horrified and fascinated as it struggled to

gain altitude with a loud swishing sound, and finally disappeared above the tree tops. We were left, amid the loathsome smell of putridity, like people suddenly wakened from a bad dream. Without a word, by mutual consent we turned the canoe around and paddled back through the winding river as though pursued by all the demons in hell.

When we had recounted this adventure to my father, he explained that occasionally the large variety of turkey buzzards wander up from the south to more northerly latitudes, and if there is enough carrion about, they will sometimes stay for months, until the first cool days send them lumbering back to where they belong. For weeks we could see the huge bird, high

in the air, circling endlessly and apparently without moving a wing.

I duly wrote up these two incidents using the most vivid prose at my command, and smugly thought that I would receive an A for the unusual, if not for the composition.

Then one day in the science class, while we were all busy dissecting a daisy, or some such thing, the teacher, who was lolling in his chair with his feet on the desk, suddenly lurched bolt upright with a terrible roar. "Bell, stand up l" he waved my science-book aloft, and in a voice quivering in a

crescendo of rage, he shouted "Did you perpetrate this horrible drivel?" I admitted that I indeed had written the piece ( and even illustrated it in true Charles Addams style). Again the furious shout , "Well then you're the goddamdest bare-faced liar I've ever met - Get out of my sight I"

Such is the fate of the true scientist, when he offers his choicest treasures to the philistines.

The following summer took a more strenuous turn.

The energy and drive exhibited by my father and Doctor Montgomery at Fox Lake were formidable. These two rather frail-looking men would descend on the camp at week-ends bristling with plans, inventions and work-projects. Everybody had to get into the act,

except my mother who provided the food to sustain the work parties at their labours.

The projects devised by Bell and Montgomery were strenuous,but never dull. That summer the mosquitoes were especially bothersome in the evenings, and my father announced that he had the perfect antidote for this plague. Mysteriously, he went to work with hammer and saw to construct a miniature house about four feet square. This house was carefully lined with rough bark and a narrow shutter-like opening was cut in one side, and

a small hinged door on the back - for observation purposes, he said. When the little house was completed, painted, and the

roof shingled, it was mounted on a 10 foot pole and set up between the cottage and the boat house. What was the gimmick? we asked. But my father would only chuckle and tell us to let nature take its course. Several days later the secret was dramatically revealed. It was a still, sultry evening and we were sitting on the dock to watch the afterglow of a brilliant sunset, and slap at mosquitoes. Presently my mother joined us with two women friends from Toronto who were spending a few days at the cottage.

Suddenly, with a wild leathery flapping, an endless series of bats emerged from the mysterious house on the pole, and made for the lake front, where they darted and swooped in mad pursuit of mosquitoes. It was an awesome and amusing sight, but of course, all hell broke loose on the dock. The silly town-women raced screaming up the path clutching their hairdo’s , in an ecstacy of terror. They could not be induced to leave the house again after sundown, and they departed one day early, with the firm conviction that they had been confined in a looney-bin. My father, of course, was delighted by the success of his anti-mosquito campaign. He explained that bats were most appreciative of a suitable place in which to hang themselves for their day-time slumber, and that if you sprayed the bark lining of the house with a certain chemical, the bat population

for miles around would crowd into the hostel. To prove his point he attempted a bat-count through the little back door, but there were so many occupants that it was impossible to enumerate them. It was my mother who put a stop to this unique form of insect control. She could take bats or leave them alone, but she hated panic, so, reluctantly, the bats were evacuated from their new-found home and the hooded slit was boarded up. From this, and possibly other episodes of a similar nature, our camp was ever-after known as "The Belfry".

Despite their versatility in many fields, Bell and Montgomery were really frustrated engineers, and Fox Lake lent enormous scope to their talents. One summer, they became aware of two fine rushing streams, one at Namaycush Lodge and one at "The Belfrey". Why should these natural sources of energy not be tapped and harnessed to do the work involved in camping?

A suitable water wheel, properly installed, would pump water

from the lake, saw wood, and operate an exhaust fan in the kitchen. With all these bothersome chores eliminated, everyone could devote themselves to more constructive things. So, out came the drawing boards and pencils to design a twelve foot water-wheel with over-shot drive. But, first, :here was the item of construct

-, I, a suitable dam in the upper of the stream so that the water could be piped at just the right height to deliver a head of, pressure to the wheel. All hands were conscripted for the rh:dn

-           gang which was to toil all summer in dam construction, but

in compassion for the slave-labour, an aerial railway was first strung up at the dam site to transport sand and rocks. This device consisted of a long steel wire slanted sharply downward for 500

feet. A large box was mounted with a pulley on the wire in such a way that the box could be filled with sand and stones, hoisted high in the air and then sent careering down the wire rope at a dizzy speed, to dump its load on the darn. This installation took weeks to complete, and when it was put into service, the chain-gang discovered that the box was big enough to hold a person and afford him the most hair-raising ride of the century - a ride which frequently ended in disaster. However, at week-ends the Simon-Legree-types would take up their whips and goad the hapless chain-gang into action, so that by summers' end the dam was ready. During the long winter, the engineers spent their evenings completing the composite pieces of the enormous wheel and packing them in barrels. In the following spring the barrels were shipped, and unpacked at the lake; and miraculously gave rise to a perfectly balanced water

wheel ready to be installed. Again the chain-gang was assembled to mount the wooden pipes at suitable heights on trees, and finally all was set to go. A modest bottle of wine was cracked over the wheel and the flume was opened to allow the water pressure to race through the pipes. Soon the wheel was spinning with a great splashing and commotion. The engineers were both stunned and ecstatic at their success. They sat immobile for

several days, gazing at the small miracle which they had wrought.

However, it was soon time to test the work-potential of their machine. A pipe was laid from the lake to a pump mounted at the base of the wheel, and my mother was promised running water in her kitchen by the next day. However, when the pump was set in motion, it appeared that the hydrodynamic calculations had gone askew, and the pump was incapable of raising water to the level of the cottage. But it was capable

of producing a fine head of pressure halfway up the hill from the lake, and in order not to waste this special water, the chain- gang was again assembled, this time to construct

concrete fish pond in front of the house. In the pond ail sorts of piscatorial experiments were to take place, but alas, it developed an irremediable leak, which could conce:v;.nly have been due to sabotage. /  next engineeri,

of Rube Goldberg contra_ .      which, whet.

wheel, would neatly cut :2 in sections

cut saw. This one really worked, and tot:. Effort on the part of the operator than wont•'

doing it the old-fashioned way. It was strange that,

 

Inauguration of this programme of labor-saving, all the chain- gang seemed strangely apathetic, as though they had drained away all their physical energies in the mighty preparations necessary to lighten the mild burdens of hewing wood and drawing water.

It is true that Bell and Montgomery spent many winter nights in Monty's basement workshop, designing and constructing weird contraptions and squandering the summer trying to make them work. For instance, an early precursor to the water wheel was the Argentine windmill, an apparatus so powerful, so delicately balanced, that it would transform the gentlest zephyr into a source of untold energy. Unfortunately, it was finally assembled in the teeth of a brisk nor'wester, gave a brief display of madly-whirling power, and then magnificently and hilariously it disintegrated, flinging its huge

blades and intricate gears far and wide.

The inventors were never discouraged by these contretemps because they had never lost the indomitable optimism of youth. Monty used to quote Thoreau, who said "Youth gets together the materials for a bridge to the moon, and middle- age builds a wood-shed of them". No woodshed builders they. Every year they built bridges over ever wider chasms - and sometimes got away with it.

However, many of the Fox Lake projects were sparked by their boundless curiosity about living things. Both these men were biologists of the first rank, and many of their projects

were actually serious and productive exercises in the experimental method.

For example, my father became interested in the cultivation of blueberries, and the possibilities of producing a strain

of oversized berries. Searching through the woods, he discovered patches of blueberries in which all the fruit was uniformly large and succulent. These were transplanted into his experimental garden, where the soil was carefully prepared to suit the plants indigenous to the district. Many of these heavy-bearing strains flourished, but when the seeds were carefully collected and planted, none of them would germinate. Now, here was a problem indeed, because blueberry plants do not propagate themselves or spread very quickly. Yet obviously some blue berry seeds must

of a strong wire arrangement.

So we surreptitiously bottled our brew and hid it under the house where it would be reasonably cool, and allow the vital process of fermentation to take place at a leisurely pace. It should be ready for consumption in about ten days, and we planned a mild debauch for that time.

The following week end was hot, and on a sultry Sunday afternoon a boatload of visitors arrived, unannounced, at the dock My mother quickly sized up the situation from the vantage point

of the front steps, and we soon knew that the visitors were a proper and rather stodgy lot because my father was ordered out of his work-shop and into a clean shirt. Fresh lemonade and little cakes were produced (with no gin bottle in evidence) so we knew that it was to be one of those dreary little conversaziones which occasionally have to be endured at camp.

As the afternoon wore on, and the talk fluttered and halted along, the visitors sat sweating, but determined to round

out what they no doubt would call a "cozy little visit". Well, it was cozy all right, and a crashing bore, too I

However, in our house there always seemed to be a diversion of some sort, whenever things got too sticky, and this day was no exception.

Promptly at 5. p.m. there was an ear-splitting explosion under the house, just below the visitors' feet, and a wild rattling and crashing of what sounded like shrapnel. The effect on the languid company was galvanic. Several people dropped their lemonade and everybody made a mad rush for the door. But before they could crowd out of the house, there was a succession of tremendous reports like a royal salute. Everyone rushed outside to investigate the source of the terrifying cannonade (except the amateur brewers, who, it seemed, had urgent business up the hill someplace).

The more intrepid investigators went to the b c2ne f..sf the explosions, and were greeted by a mass of billowing suds which rolled out from under the house - like an overturned

bubble bath. Over all, was the overpowering fruity odour of hops and alcohol, like a whiff from a busy saloon on a Saturday night.

The visitors, who it seems were good Methodists and staunch teetotalers, as well as bores, were not amused by this shameful display of law breaking and potential debauch; they took their stilted leave, much to the relief of my family and their guests, who could then roll in helpless merriment at the wicked experiment of the young, and how some stern retributive

force had frustrated their evil intentions with Jovian thunderbolts.

Later, the guilty brewmasters crept down the hill to

take their punishment. They were given a stern rebuke, punctuated by giggles, by my father, who then launched into a brief

lecture on the nature of fermentation, and an explanation of somebody's law about expansion of gases in closed containers. All this was of inestimable benefit to the culprits, an

 

and subsequent brews were mildly successful, but, alas! not very inebriating.

The last project that was to be undertaken at Fox Lake was designed to assist Professor Reginald Buller in the compilation of data for his great monograph on fungi. Bullet- had been

Professor of Botany at the University of Manitoba for thirty years, and was one of the world's leading authorities on descriptive mycology. He haft spent most of his professional life compiling

a monumental treatise on fungi; now, time was running out, and being a perfectionist, he was constantly plagued by the

thought that there were omissions in the text. So he appealed to Bell and Montgomery who were both much interested in the subject, to search for unusual or undescribed species of fungi that might rectify any possible omissions in a monograph that already ran to two thousand pages.

Now it just so happens that the country around Fox Lake fairly bristles with every known variety of fungi, from the innocent Morel (Morchells esculenta) to the dreaded Death Cap (Amanita phalloides); so, Professor Buller was invited to visit the lake and forage for himself. Buller was an illustrious biologist and an indefatigable fungus-hunter. Like those enterprising pigs that are trained to detect, and snout out the succulent truffle, Buller seemed to be able to scent the rarer fungi at a distance. On one of our expeditions, while skirting a swamp, the eminent professor suddenly stopped in his tracks, sniffed this way and that, then plunged into the boggy woods. As we reluctantly followed him we became aware of a Most peculiar and offensive smell. We found Buller bending excitedly over a

decomposing object, the general shape of which might be suggested by its correct Latin name - "Phallus impudicus" - but whose dominant characteristic, at that moment, was indicated by the more familiar name of "Stink Horn". The stench was almost overpowering, but Buller insisted on picking the unsavory fungus and wrapping it carefully in moss, explaining that this species was rarely found

in these latitudes. He further insisted on taking it back to town with him. My mother packed it in a stout card-board box, holding her nose the while, and the professor went off happily, clutching his prize. So pleased was he with his find, that it never occurred to him to wonder why, on a crowded week-end train, he was able to sit in solitary splendour, with his little box in his lap, and empty seats all around him.

The entire camp was organized for a gigantic fungus hunt. A prize was set up, known as the "Baffle Buller Award", and we combed the country for miles around, armed with copies of a pictorial guide-book called "The Mushrooms and Toadstools of North America". Every day we would return laden with colorful

and succulent looking specimens which bore fascinating names like: The Lurid Boletus; Orange-Peel Elf-Cap; Fairy-ring Champignon; Beefsteak fungus; and Shaggy Ink Cap. All of these rich finds were sorted out by my father, who admitted that we had garnered in a harvest of rarities, but that none qualified for the coveted "Baffle Buller Award".

It was not until the middle of August that we stumbled upon the prize-winning specimen. It was growing in a rather sinister swamp, amid a tangle of rotting dead-fall, and the lacy skeletons of tamarac trees, victims of the blight. There in the heart of this dank jungle was the Thing.

It was large and shapeless, and looked somehow like spilled brains. The corrugated surface was dead white, with irregular splotches of brownish-red. The Thing grew on a thick warty stalk. It was altogether a weird and faintly obscene looking object, which defied classification, and richly merited the "Baffle Buller Award".

The specimen was carefully wrapped in wet moss and placed in a box to be taken to town. My father could hardly wait to pass it on to Professor Buller, and whën he arrived home he carefully deposited the precious box in the refrigerator and went to bed.

Next morning, still bemused by thoughts of what Buller's reaction to the weird fungus would be, my father abstractedly

ate the breakfast put before him by the Norwegian maid. Immediately after breakfast, he went to the ice-box to get the box, only to find that it had disappeared. The maid was new, and spoke only the most rudimentary English, but after a brief and agitated conference, conducted mostly in pantomime, the awful truth emerged. My father and the maid had shared the precious, and potentially deadly fungus mixed with scrambled eggs.

There was no time for explanations. My father made the nearest drug store, setting an all time record for a man with a. wooden leg. lie was back in a flash with a large dose of ipecac, which he quickly mixed in two portions, and insisted that the startled maid take half, while he swallowed the rest.

The result was instantaneous and undignified - but highly effective. It was just a step from drink to sink. After

a brief period of clinical observation (during which the outraged Norwegian almost had to be restrained by force), it was evident that no toxic effects were going to appear, and the maid was allowed to pack her bag and flounce out of "the crazy house". My father was left to muse sadly about the fate of the unidentified fungus, and regret the lost opportunity to baffle Buller.

These reminiscences may suggest that all the activity and fun at Fox Lake were concentrated in the week-ends, when the adults foregathered to work or play. Actually the week days were packed full of incident and excitement for the young. In those far off days, teen agers were not problems, because they attacked life with spontaneous zest and delight. It was not yet the fashion for teen-agers to behave like dreary little adults, preoccupied by that maudlin by-product of adolescent schmaltz, known as "going steady". All the boys and girls were too busy cooking up joyous and innocent adventures that filled up their days, to pay too much attention to their glandular impulses. Perhaps in those days we lacked the sophistication of the teenagers of today, but we could revel in simple pleasures; like licking the rich ice-cream off the plunger of an old-fashioned freezer that had to be turned for hours; or taming a family of skunks so that they were as playful as kittens and affectionate

as puppies; or striking out through the woods to clear a portage to an unexplored lake; or drinking from a spring that bubbled clear ice cold water on a hot summer's day; or sailing in perilous cedar canoes, overladen with canvas, in the teeth of a gale - all these things afforded us the kind of pure enjoyment that all adolescents should revel in, before they are supplanted by the more pedestrian pleasures of adult life.

I can always recall as a small boy of 12 having a love affair with an elderly locomotive - all small boys have such love

.••••

affairs at some time, but mine was consuni,ated, so to speak, in a most unexpected way. At that age I thought that a locomotive was the most beautiful and awe-inspiring invention of man. I used to stand entranced, beside these monsters, whenever one was crouched in the station, panting with latent power, and

every now and then, giving off an impatient blast of hissing steam that rose in a great white plume. I would arrange to be at the station when one of the 5000 class would roar through without slackening speed, drawing behind it the long string of cars with windows full of blurred faces. The engine seemed to exult in its tremendous power as it panted furiously through the rock-cuts, emitting great howls of joy as it approached the station. Then the deafening roar as the locomotive went hurtling by, and the staccato tickedy-tick sound of the coaches singing on the rails. These sounds were to me a beautiful symphonic poem, even

when heard in the distance.

Then, one memorable day in July, 1 went to the station with a friend who was visiting me. We were bearing blueberry pies and bread, fresh from my mother's oven, destined for the foreman's wife who was ill. There on the siding stood a locomotive coupled to two gravel cars. As engines go this one was no great shakes - it once had been a proud young locomotive that hauled the best passenger trains, but it had become long funneled and tiresome after many years of service, and had then been demoted to the menial task of hauling gravel at a wayside station. However, to me and my pal, it was a thing of beauty, and we were drawn to inspect it more closely. The engineer lounging in the shade of the tender caught the aroma

of our fresh blueberry pies and licked his chops audibly. Here was the perfect conversational opening, and we shamelessly offered a pie in return for a conducted tour of the locomotive. Then, to our delight, the genial engineer explained that he was hauling gravel from a pit two miles up the line, and offered

to take us with him in the cab. We hastily deposited our bread and pies in the station house, and climbed, breathless with excitement, into the hot interior of the cab. Then came the moment of sheer ecstasy when the engineer doffed his visored cap, clapped it on my head and ordered me to climb on the driver's seat and have my first lesson in engine driving. First you heaved on a gigantic iron lever to put the engine into the go-ahead gear, then you eased the throttle forward while the monster gave a mighty snort, a clang of couplings, and then moved slowly forward. The engineer then showed me how to gain momentum by advancing the throttle suddenly; this gave rise to a staccato series of wild chuffs, and a spinning of the huge driving wheels on the rails. We were off on what is still the most exciting ride of my life. As the little train gathered speed and approached a trestle, I was instructed to pull the whistle cord, which unleashed a deep-throated blast that echoed gloriously from the rocks. At the end of the line

there was the important business of easing back the throttle, and applying the air brakes with just enough force to bring the monster to a gentle halt, and a satisfactory squeal from the rails. The return journey had to be made backing up, which was considered rather advanced for beginners, but my pal was allowed to try his hand on the next trip out; and I remember being rather critical of his technique. The afternoon was far spent, and we were delirious with joy. We offered our

services for as long as the gravel ballasting continued, but the kindly engineer explained that by allowing unauthorized persons to drive his locomotive, he had already risked his job - seduced by a blueberry pie. My mother forgave us for being late. for dinner when she learned that her culinary art had given us the most exciting experience of our lives.

 

What I have set down in these pages represents but a fragment of the history of Fox Lake. Those were the best days of all; days packed full of incident and adventure, suffused with the glow of youthful enthusiasm, and real happiness. That blissful era came to an abrupt end with the death of Gordon Bell in August, 1923. It is perhaps some consolation to recall that, even as he was developing the premonitory signs of a rapidly mortal illness, my father was on his way to Fox Lake to tend

his garden and plan new projects for the following summer. Now, the little garden has been swallowed up by encroaching forest, the water-wheel is still; but all around the lake there are many lasting memorials to the man who loved Fox Lake with the fervency of a great naturalist. However, the most significant memorial that he left behind, was the influence he had on all the fortunate ones who were closely associated with him during those far-off days. They captured some of his passion for truth and scientific accuracy, his profound erudition and warm-hearted humor; and, above all, the irresistible charm of his personality.

At the conclusion of his fine tribute to my father, Edward Montgomery wrote these words:

"I must express the thought that Gordon Bell, in spite of the onerous burdens he bore for others, and in spite of the handicaps he carried, was conscious of having lived a useful and helpful life. This was reflected in his cheerful countenance and his perennial good humor, and is best expressed in Dryden's translation of Horace's Ode:

'Happy the man, and happy he alone,

He who can call today his own:

He who, secure within, can say

Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today I 13? fair or foul, or rain or shine:

The joys 1 have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine: Not heaven itself upon the past has power,

But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour'".