Canada Calls
Grand Forks Herald, North DakotaMay 20, 1921Read by Maya El-KibbiIt is utterly useless to compare Canada, except with the very best of our resorts. To begin with, it lies north of our northern boundary and, consequently, is cool.Its scenery has charmed us in the movies, but only for magnificent flashes as compared with a vacation in the hospitable Dominion.Canada appeals to the successful – to the highest order of nature lovers, to knowing tourists, artists, experienced campers, canoeists, anglers, hunters and mountain climbers. It is historic, legendary, but above all, superlatively beautiful, healthful and invigorating. Memories linger.The Grand Trunk, being the principle route to Canadian resorts, has had the pleasure of compiling and publishing a most complete guide book with maps. It is free for the asking. Reduced fares during the entire summer season. Address requests to J. D. McDonald, General Passenger Agent, Grand Trunk Railway System, 112 West Adams Street, Chicago Illinois.
Wolves like to scare men
Kansas City StarJanuary 5, 1914by W. Lacey AmyRead by Sylvia WardThe danger to man from the timber wolves that make Algonquin Park their winter hunting ground is not yet very great. Since the Canadian government made the great forest territory a reservation, no man has been attacked; but very likely that is because other food is plentiful. The wolves, however, have again and again shown that they enjoy frightening man.On one of the long trips with the rangers, we had taken with us the superintendent’s sledge team of great danes. As we lay in a shelter house one night, the howls of the wolves made sleep impossible, and when we hitched up early in the morning light, they were so close we could hardly control the dogs.When we started, the pack collected just over a ridge, and kept pace with us through the trees, not two hundred yards away. After travelling some time in this way, there came an unaccountable silence and a few minutes later the howls broke out a half mile away. Again there was only the sound of the harness bells and the crunch of snowshoes.All of a sudden, the howls came again with renewed vigor, and this time they were making straight for us at full speed. In a few seconds they were just beyond the ridge and still coming furiously. The dogs tugged madly to be free, for they had learned to hate the wolves as fiercely as the ranger does.Obviously, it was wise to be prepared. Three of us stood with rifles ready, and the driver loosed the dogs from the traces and held them in hand. Thus we faced the oncoming animals.The hideous howling came through the trees, on and on, climbed the ridge at undiminished speed – and just as we were sighting for a shot, suddenly ceased. For three uncomfortable minutes, there was dead silence, save for the controlled whining of the straining dogs. Then the clamor broke loose again, but at our backs. The dogs had come almost within sight in front and then had passed silently round to give us another scare from the rear. Three times that morning, they repeated their performance. Their howls sounded to us like derisive laughter.At one place, we crossed their trail, and I could see only one wolf track. But the rangers read more, and a few yards beyond we saw the track divide into eight or ten. The pack had stepped so accurately in the tracks of the leader that a novice would think that only one wolf had passed.
The Tom Thomson Story
If Tom Thomson's story interests or inspires you, please visit the Great Unsolved Canadian Mysteries website for more information.
The Brotherhood of Builders
Christian ObserverSeptember 5, 1900 (v88, iss36)By Frank YeighRead by Keesha DicksonLet me introduce Mr. Rodent Beaver, CE., of the Canadian forest. This civil engineer of the woods is a most remarkable little workman – accurate, industrious, cautious and prudent. I called upon him last summer at his home in the Algonquin National Park of Ontario, paddling many miles to his wilderness retreat where, under the protection of government rangers, he is for the time being safe from the wanton destruction of the trapper and hunter. As a result, this strange little brotherhood of builders is rapidly increasing in numbers, and their lodges are to be found along the banks of many lakes in this beautiful natural reservation.It was at first a problem in etiquette which Mr. Beaver to call upon so as to prevent social jealousies, but it so happened that I was forced to make a visit to a large and highly respectable community that had, without asking leave of the park superintendent, built a large dam right across our canoe route, necessitating a short portage. A wonderful structure it was, stretching from shore to shore a distance of at least fifty feet, and with a height of eight feet. Its broad base rested on the river bed, and as the dam was being built, the energetic little chaps carried to the spot all the broken twigs they could find. When this supply ran short, their sharp teeth cut down branches and sometimes whole standing trees. Others of the company laid the sticks in position and some carried the wet mud from the banks and laid it on as cement.The genius of the animal showed itself by choosing a place where a number of boulders had stranded in mid-channel and where a pile of brushwood had gathered around them. This served as a nucleus for the dam. Then a line of sticks was driven or forced obliquely into the river bed; this was followed by other sticks laid down criss-cross and cemented with black mud. In the course of a few months the big undertaking nears completion after it has reached the water’s surface. The beaver works in the open air and raises the structure about two feet above high water, where it receives its finishing touches. A man can then walk on its surface, so solid is the construction, as indeed it must be to withstand the storms and the force of the great mass of waters thus dammed up.When the miniature architects in this reservation discovered that they were to be protected, they lost no time in not only building new dams, but in repairing the old ones, where they showed a curious economy in using deserted foundations of other beaver built dams. On the lake we next reached, there were streets of beaver houses along the flooded banks. It was here that I made my formal call, but unfortunately it was not the afternoon when Mrs. Beaver was receiving, and, alas, the house was empty! But the call was made all the same, as it might be years before I should pass that way again.It was perhaps rude, but we examined the funny little house, as unique in its way as the big dam. All one could see at first was an uneven mass of tangled driftwood, but there was method and design in every stick. Here again, thousands of twigs from fallen timber had been so laid together that the result was a fine two-story house, with a thatched roof, which made a comfortable home for our furry friends. The ground floor was under water and the upper story just above the lake level, yet hidden under a roof of twigs and branches. The front door, strange to say, was also under the water and beneath a submerged veranda; and when Mr. and Mrs. Beaver returned from their afternoon outing, they would enter their domicile by diving into it. Once inside, they live just as much or as little in the water as they like. To rise above it they have only to climb up one flight of a stairway of sticks to find themselves in a nice cool and dry dining-room and bedroom suite. Yes, and there was a chimney – a vent that served as an air chamber, but which unpracticed eyes would never discover, except in the winter time, when the beaver father and mother and all the baby beavers are enjoying their long siesta, an the air escaping from the opening in the snow-covered roof tells the passer-by of the hidden house beneath and its snug little family.Close to the front door is the refrigerator and pantry, both under water. Hundreds of tiny branches, with their leaves still on, were being kept green in the water, and were anchored in the mud, ready to be pulled up and served three times a day to order. I suppose they have twigs on the half shell, twigs fricasseed, twigs in an omelet, and lily roots and birch-bark entrees and dessert.So you see what knowing little chaps these dwellers in the forest are. They are as keen in the senses of sight and sound as the deer, and it takes more than a tenderfoot to catch them napping. We did catch one, though, but that was because the poor fellow was lying on a log so ill that he welcomed capture. He had apparently been caught in a jam of logs, in the sweep down stream, and was seemingly badly injured. Carefully lifting him into the canoe, we took him to camp, where he was made comfortable and fed with some dainties that healthy beavers rarely enjoy. We named him Kittens – why, I do not know – and in a short time he made friends with us all. But one night, with his pulse again normal and his sickness gone, he disappeared from camp, and no doubt soon rejoined his anxious family on Loon Lake.Sound effects by the IntraEnvironmental Sound Project, downloaded from Freesound.org. Presented here wiith modifications.
Bite of Blackflies Kills Six
Bellingham HeraldEast Aurora, New YorkJuly 26, 1907Read by Justyna GeidlingerJohn Giffen, who has just returned from the Algonquin Park locality of Canada, reports that six deaths resulted from blood poisoning, following stings of black flies near his camp. Mr. Giffen has hunted in the region of Algonquin Park for many years and he pronounces the pests the most numerous and deadly he has ever seen.
Where Wilderness is King
Morning OlympianMarch 11, 1921Read by Mark WaltonAlgonquin Park has become one of the great all-the-year-round playgrounds of the continent. Its winter season now drawing to a close has been one of the most crowded in its history.The park in the Ontario Highlands on the Grand Trunk railway 200 miles north of Toronto contains 2,000 square miles of virgin forest. It is a wilderness almost at the doors of scores of great cities. Fifteen hundred lakes are embosomed in its unending woods of pine and balsam. It is a sanctuary for wild game. Villages of beaver dot its innumerable streams. Deer, moose, fox and lynx have grown almost tame. Highland Inn furnishes all the comforts of civilization in the heart of primeval solitudes.Snowshoeing has been one of the popular diversions this winter. Parties of merrimakers have been constantly on the trail. Many have gone out at night to enjoy the beauties of the snow-drifted forest under moonlight. Ice fishing, ski running, tobogganing and skating have been favourite sports. Camera devotees have held high carnival snapping wild creatures in their winter homes.Soon warm weather will transform the park and the influx of summer visitors will begin. Outfitting at the park store, these will spend their outing in canoeing, bathing, fishing and exploring far corners of the wilderness under expert guides. The lakes are so interlocked by innumerable streams that one may paddle a canoe a day’s journey without portage. The waters swarm with speckled trout, black bass, and muskellunge. International anglers have pronounced Algonquin Park the best fishing grounds in North America.
The Song My Paddle Sings
The Song my Paddle Sings, or “The Paddle Song”, is an original song with text adapted from the lyrical poem by Emily Pauline Johnson, who was the first Indigenous poet to be published in Canada during the 19th Century. The music was composed and performed by Canadian musician Kevin Camilleri and recorded by the Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic Elementary School Star Chords Choir, under the direction of educators Rosa Palinkas and Rosemary Gratta. Vocal recordings and this beautiful video was created by Canadian musician John Mamone. All participants are with The Hamilton Wentworth Catholic District School Board. As a special feature, we were honored to have Mr. Rod Nettagog recite the prayers and play traditional drum on this recording and video. Mr. Nettagog is an Anishnabe from Henvey Inlet First Nation located 50 kilometers north of Parry Sound by the French River. He is of the Bear Clan and his spirit name is Bluestonecloud.“The Paddle Song” depicts environmental sustainability while celebrating the beauty of water and our rich Indigenous Heritage.Available on Vimeo. For inquiries please visit www.camillerimusic.com, or email Kevin Camilleri at kevincamillerimusic@gmail.comEarth teach me freedomAs the eagle which soars in the sky.Earth teach me regenerationAs the seed which rises in the spring.Earth teach me to forget myselfAs melted snow forgets its life.Earth teach me to remember kindnessAs dry fields weep with rain.- Ute PrayerI stow the sail, unship the mast: I wooed you long but my wooing's past; My paddle will lull you into rest. O! drowsy drowsy wind of the drowsy west,Sleep, sleep, By your mountain steep, Or down where the prairie grasses sweep! Now fold in slumber your laggard wings, For soft is the song my paddle sings.Treat the earth well. We do not inherit the earth from our ancestors; we borrow it from our children. - Native American ProverbChorus:There’s an ancient lore, that a black snake roars below the hills and among the shoresThe wonderment of our land we spent many years and trials we are one with itAnd forward far the rapids roar, Fretting their margin for evermore. Dash, dash, With a mighty crash, They seethe, and boil, and bound, and splashWe are all flowers in the Great Spirit's garden. We share a common root, and the root is Mother Earth. - Hopi ProphecyChorus:There’s an ancient lore, that a black snake roars below the hills and among the shoresThe wonderment of our land we spent many years and trials we are one with itBridge:My words are tied in one with the great mountains, with the great rocks, with the great trees, in one with my body and heart.All of you see me, one with this world.- Yokuts PrayerAnd up on the hills against the sky, A fir tree rocking its lullaby, Swings, swings, Its emerald wings, Swelling the song that my paddle sings.When the earth is sick and dying,There will come a tribe of peopleFrom all races…Who will put their faith in deeds,Not words, and make the planetGreen again…- Cree ProphecyTreat the earth well.It was not given to you by your parents,It was loaned to you by your children.We do not inherit the Earth from our Ancestors,we borrow it from our Children.- Ancient Native ProverbWater is PowerWater is BeautyWater is Life
Ontario's Big Park
Minneapolis JournalSpecial to The JournalOctober 4, 1899Read by Sara GeidlingerToronto, Ontario, October 14 – In the public interest the legislature of the province of Ontario in 1892 passed what is known as the Algonquin National Park act, which set aside a large tract of land lying near and enclosing the headwaters of the Muskoka, Madawaska, and Amable du Fond, Petawawa and South rivers, as a national park, forest reservation, fish and game preserver, health resort and pleasure ground for the benefit, advantage and enjoyment of the people of the province. When the project was first announced, there was considerable opposition, but after seven years, it has been found to be a greater boon to the province than expected.The tract of land comprises eighteen townships lying within the Nipissing district, and is under the control and management of the department of crown lands. The park is nearly thirty-six miles in breadth and some forty miles in length from north to south. A superintendent was appointed who has the same power as a magistrate in administering justice to anyone found illegally hunting, fishing, or cutting timber in the park. With a staff of wardens and rangers, who have shelters erected in the various townships, the reserve is carefully patrolled and few penalties have been imposed in the seven years that the land has been under the government supervision. Men who had been making their living in hunting and trapping in the territory willingly removed their traps and assisted the officers in preserving game. While regretting the loss of their trapping grounds, they acknowledged that the fur-bearing animals were gradually becoming scarce, and recognized that preservation would eventually be to their benefit, as the animals would increase in number and could be taken in their proper season outside the park limits. Notwithstanding the reckless slaughter previous to 1892, moose and deer are now plentiful, and beaver exist in large numbers in many localities.The territory is literally covered with lakes and ponds of great natural beauty, and a more suitable location for a park could not be found in Canada. Great Opeongo lake is the largest sheet of water in the park. From north to south its extreme limits embrace some twelve miles while in width it measures even miles at one point. The lake has numerous islands, and presents many picturesque features. The scenery throughout is beautiful. On every side of the forest primeval clothes the hills and mountains with verdure of varying hue down to the very shore of the lakes. To the tourist the continual change from lake to river, from river to portage, and from portage to river and lake again, make a delightful panorama which captivates the eye and the senses and provides abundant opportunity for the cultivation of the tastes in the study of all the varying phases of the landscape, and impels a seeking after more perfect knowledge of the many varieties of animal and vegetable life which have their habitat in the territory.For many years before the territory was set apart timber limits on the site were sold to various lumbermen, but in 1893 a regulation was put inforce whereby only pine could be cut. Now that a railway runs through the southern portion of the reserve a value has been given to hardwood logs, and the government has been asked to re-enact the conditions which existed previous to 1893. The government has refused and will take all precautions against the denudation of the park.Camping parties from Rochester and Buffalo have been visiting the territory for years and depots have been built where accommodation and supplies may be obtained. The government issues special licenses for tourists who desire to fish and firearms are not allowed in the territory unless for the killing of wolves, bears, wolverines, wild cats, foxes or hawks.The commissioner of crown lands has the power to lease for a term of years any parcel of land in the park as he deems advisable for the construction of buildings, for ordinary habitation, and such other buildings as may be necessary for the accommodation of visitors or persons resorting to the park as a sanitarium of health or summer resort. The benefits derived from this preserve have influenced the officials in other provinces to follow the example of Ontario, and it will be only a short time before each province in the Dominion will have territory set apart for preservation of game and to bused as a health resort.
Poachers Punished
The GlobeToronto, OntarioOctober 4, 1903Read by John PollakEdward Dorian has paid a fine of $50 to Superintendent Bartlett for violating the game laws by shooting moose on September 13th 1903, and P. O’Brien a fine of $5 for setting a trap in the park. The enforcement of the game laws in the park is being strictly carried out, and future offenders will still be more severely dealt with.Sound effects by Migfus20 available at Freesound.org
Novelist Goes Fishing
The GlobeJuly 2, 1914Read by Steve GeidlingerSir Arthur and Lady Conan Doyle, who have been touring in Canada as the guests of the Grand Trunk System, spent last weekend in Algonquin Park, staying in Nominigan Log Cabin Camp on Smoke Lake, where they enjoyed the experience of being in the wilds of this magnificent region in a rustic camp equipped with all modern conveniences.The weather was delightful and fishing all that could be desired. Some splendid catches were secured, among which was an eight pound black salmon trout landed by Lady Doyle. Sir Arthur and Lady Conan Doyle will sail for England on the steamship Megantic on July 4th.
Our Sprightly Greybeards
Maclean’s MagazineDecember 1, 1915By W. A. CraickRead by Angela PollakApril 5, 1826 in the village of Sheford Quebec, there first saw the light of day an octogenarian of virility and fame – John R. Booth, of Ottawa. The veteran lumberman, now almost on the threshold of his ninety-first year, is in many respects a remarkable personality. Nurtured in the rough school of experience, engaged most of his life in the hard and strenuous work of felling vast forests and turning their trees into lumber, he has become almost as tough and seasoned as the product of his industry. There is a saying that you can’t kill Booth, and if one may judge by the number of hazardous experiences he has gone through, there may be some truth in the assertion. He has been in many tight places, has faced all kinds of dangers, has had more than one man’s share of accidents – and yet has lived through it all, and at eighty-nine is still doing his day’s work with his old-time vigor.It is not so long ago that in superintending the demolition of a partially burned mill, the old man received a blow from a piece of timber that broke his leg, bruised his shoulder and gashed his head. The story goes that he was hurried to the hospital to have the leg set. A doctor was about to apply the usual anaesthetic in order to relieve the pain of the operation when the grizzled veteran, who had remained perfectly conscious, demanded what he was about. On being told, he motioned him away, exclaiming“I don’t want to be put to sleep: I want to see this thing done to myself.”And he actually went through the agony of the setting without a murmur.“I want to see this thing done to myself” is characteristic of the man. He has always wanted to see things done. They say that if you go to his office in Ottawa, the chances are that you’ll be told that “he is out in the yards somewhere.” From the time he arrives in the morning until the time he leaves at night, this short, sturdy, grey-bearded man, in his plain, serviceable clothes, is flitting about here, there and everywhere among the various yards and buildings that constitute the immense Booth Industries. To locate him is almost as difficult as to find a needle in a haystack and the pursuit is not unlike a game of hide-and-go-seek. Nor is this a something of bygone years. It is the same today as it was yesterday.Here is a description of the man as he sets out from his residence on Sparks street at an early hour in the morning. He drives to and from the mills in an open buggy, for he religiously avoids the use of streetcars. Never given to extravagance in dress, he invariably wears in cool weather a short double-breasted coat, a dark fur cap pulled well down over the head, woolen mittens with buckskin palms, and a pair of warm overshoes, and at the mill he usually slips on a pair of rusty overalls. To tell the plain truth, his driver is often more expensively clad than Mr. Booth, who is the last man in Ottawa, from his apparel or appearance, to ever be taken for a millionaire.There are many stories told about J. R. Booth, and a book could easily be filled with anecdotes gleaned from the records of a life of uninterrupted activity, but one little incident will be sufficient to illustrate his habits of mind and life.Not many years ago the gentleman was persuaded by members of his family to take a holiday and after much argument, he was prevailed on to go to Atlantic City. It was the first holiday, they say, he had ever taken. On the morning after his arrival at the famous resort, he was up as usual at six o’clock and, before the rest of the party had risen, made a lonely tour of the boardwalk. The first question levelled at him by the others was, had he had breakfast. His reply is thus recorded:“Yes, I tried to get into the dining room a half dozen times, and they wouldn’t let me in until eight o’clock. I’ve been up and down and met thousands of people and not one has even nodded at me. There is nothing to see or do here and I am going home. This is no place for a busy man. Why, if I had been around my yard as long as I have here, hundreds of workmen would have bade me, “Good morning.” As for this boardwalk, I saw enough lumber every day at home to build a dozen or more such promenades.”And home he went, sure enough.
Only Eight Hours Ride
The GlobeJuly 17, 1914Read by Mark WaltonAn improved train service has been put in operation between Toronto and Algonquin Park via Grand Trunk Railway. Leaving Toronto at 12:01 noon, daily except Sunday, Algonquin Park station is reached at 8:21pm. Return service leaves the park at 8:06 am, daily except Sunday, arriving Toronto at 4:10pm. Drawing-room-parlor-library-café car service on these trains.Excellent sleeping car service has also been inaugurated, as follows: Leave Toronto 2:05am, daily except Sunday (car will be ready for reception of passengers at 9pm), and arrive at Algonquin at 10:15 am. Returning train leaves Algonquin Park at 5:28pm, daily except Sunday, and arrives Toronto 7:30 am.Descriptive folders and full information may be had on application to Grand Trunk ticket offices, or write C. E. Horning, District Passenger Agent, Toronto, Ontario.
