Born in Chile, Henry came to Canada with brother William to help run Price Brothers Lumber Price, Henry Edward & Helen Muriel (Gilmour) Born in Chile, Henry came to Canada with brother William to help run Price Brothers Lumber Back to ALL Bios Henry Edward Price 1869 – 1954 & Helen Muriel (Gilmour) 1879 – 1952 Henry Edward (Harry) Price was born in Zemita, Chile in 1869, the second son out of seven children of Henry Ferrier Price and Florence Stoker Rogerson. As with all his brothers and sisters, he was baptized in the Roman Catholic Church and had Roman Catholics stand proxy for their godparents. Little else is known about their childhood in Chile. At the age of eleven in 1880, he and his older brother William were sent from Chile to Wolfesfield in Sillery, Quebec to live with their uncles and aunts so they could be educated to take over the company, as none of the three Price Brothers and their sisters then living at Wolfesfield was married or had children. At the time the two boys arrived in Canada, they only spoke Spanish. As the aunts and uncles forbade them to speak Spanish to one another, they learned English in a hurry. From the stories Henry told his children, they were quite lonely. Henry attended Trinity College School, Port Hope from 1884 to 1888. After leaving TCS, he lived with his parents (who by then had moved to Canada from Chile) while attending Osgoode Hall Law School from which he graduated. Afterwards, he articled at the firm of Blake, Lash and Cassels, in Toronto. During the mid to late 1890s, he moved to Quebec City to become corporate legal counsel for Price Brothers and following the death of their uncle Evan John in 1899, his brother William became President of Price Brothers. Helen Muriel Gilmour was born in Quebec City in 1879 as the first child of John David Gilmour and Helen Shamberg Fraser. She was usually known as Mimi or Muriel and had two brothers Kenneth and Dudley born in 1881 and 1882 respectively. Her family had founded Allan Gilmour and Co. in Quebec in the 1820s. Muriel was the granddaughter of John Gilmour, a contemporary of the original William Price who arrived in Quebec in 1810 and was an equally renowned lumber merchant. Her mother, Helen Fraser, came from Port Hope in Ontario and was related to the Wotherspoon and Cumberland families. Much of Muriel’s childhood was spent in Port Hope, her mother’s hometown, where she was educated. Harry married Helen Muriel Gilmour in 1901 at St. Andrew’s Church in Quebec. He had to ask her three times to marry him before she finally accepted. All of their ten children, starting with Helen Florence were born in Quebec between 1902 and 1921. Their youngest daughter Joan died of diphtheria or scarlet fever in 1924. Harry was instrumental in founding the Quebec Golf Club, one of North America’s oldest. In 1915, it was compelled to move out of the Plains of Abraham and east to its present-day location near Montmorency Falls. In 1934, King George V granted it the privilege to add the “Royal” prefix to its name. In the winter Harry was a keen curler. They lived at 2 St. Denis Ave, 16 St. Denis Ave., and 269 Laurier Ave. At the time they were comfortably off, as their daughter Helen spoke of trips to Europe in 1913, 1921 and 1928. The wedding of her sister Enid to Sydney Williams at the Cathedral of the Holy Trinity in 1929 was a grand occasion. In the early 1920s, they were given the use of the house Casa Nueva (also known as the Harry Price House) in Tadoussac by Sir William Price after Harry and William’s mother, Florence Rogerson Price died. The only condition was understood to be that when their sister Terry was in Tadoussac she would stay at Casa Nueva and not next door at Fletcher Cottage. Harry was the Corporate Secretary of Price Brothers until the time of the depression when they lost their money with the bankruptcy of Price Brothers in 1933 because of their stockbroker's inability (or deliberate decision not) to sell all their investments when requested. During the depression, they had to take in boarders, but they never let their old Nanny go. She stayed with them until they both died when she went to live with Ida Price. Helen stayed with them for quite a while, as did Milly until she went off to Europe to join the war effort in 1941. Jimmy also remained with them until both his parents died. In 1948 they gave Jimmy the family house in Tadoussac in appreciation for all he had done for his parents. As a result of the financial difficulties, Muriel set up an investment account for all her children and grandchildren, which was managed by her son Jimmy, a stockbroker. This account continued throughout the lives of her children until 2008. During the 1940s tragedy unrelated to the war struck as three of their children died within five years. First Gilly was killed in an industrial accident at the Price Brothers mill in Riverbend in 1940. Evan was killed in an airplane accident in 1944, on his way to a funeral for a family friend. That same year Iso died in Ottawa after a long illness. During the war when their fathers were away in Europe, Harry visited all his Williams and Smith grandchildren every night to wish them good night. Many of their grandchildren remember Harry and Muriel in Tadoussac in the years after the war. Stories abound of Harry buying ice cream cones for his grandchildren on Cartier Avenue in Quebec or right before their lunch in Tadoussac. He also cheated while endlessly playing patience. They remember Muriel in Tadoussac for giving herself her daily needles for her diabetes after boiling them and yelling at Harry who was ten years older to tell him what he was supposed to be doing next. Some of their grandchildren lived with them finishing the grade twelve high school courses they needed to qualify for post-secondary education. They celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary in November 1951. Helen Muriel died in Quebec in 1952, when she suddenly collapsed on the way to bed with only her deaf husband in the house at the time. Help arrived shortly afterwards, however, when her son Jimmy arrived home. Henry Edward died at the Jeffrey Hale Hospital in Quebec in 1954. Greville Price The 2 group photos are interesting from Tadoussac point-of-view, because two of Henry and Muriel's children were Enid, who married Sidney Williams of the Rhodes Family, and Iso who married Guy Smith, so the Ballantynes, Campbells, and Williams are cousins of McCarters, Van Aylstyns and Youngers! It's complicated. First group is the Rhodes/Williams group circa 1940 ?, Frank Morewood, Jim Alexander, Gertrude (Williams)Alexander , ?, Sidney Williams Caroline Anne (Nan) (Rhodes) Williams, Henry and Helen Muriel Price, Lennox Williams, Enid (Price) Williams, Susan Williams (Webster) Nan Wallace (Leggat), Joan Williams (Ballantyne), Mary (Williams) Wallace, Jim Williams Second Group is the Iso (Price) Smith group including Pam Smith (McCarter) on the right, we need help with names! Back to ALL Bios

May Dawson played the Chapel organ for many years but not much else is known. Dawson, May May Dawson played the Chapel organ for many years but not much else is known. Back to ALL Bios May Dawson 1870-1967 May Dawson (1870 – 1967) played the organ and helped the community in many other ways. She’s described in the book In the Quiet of This Place as having a cognitive disability but that was the May Dawson who was born in 1908, sister of Doris Molson. Neither of the May Dawsons married. May Dawson of 1870 lived with Louisa Jane Burns in Toronto along with a grand niece and a grand nephew of Louisa’s, Carington D. Smith (18) and Noel Lavina Smith (16). Whether they were related to May is unclear. George Dudley Dawson and Elizabeth Crooks were the parents of: May Dawson (1870 – 1967) and her younger siblings, Aileen (1874 – 1952), Richard and Dudley. Back to ALL Bios

Short Stories by R Lewis Evans R. Lewis Evans was an English Teacher who loved to write. Although his books are quite well-known, his short stories and articles belong mostly to the more distant past. It was during the 1940s and 1950s that magazine short stories were popular and sought after and Dad wrote over 20 of them. Most were published, and many are of interest especially to those of us who know and love the Lower St. Lawrence and Saguenay areas of Quebec, so I decided to get them out of the file and onto the web-site where they can be read once again. I've divided the stories into categories. While he wrote mostly river stories about the Tadoussac area, including some historical fiction, he also wrote 6 stories about World War II (4 of which overlap with our beloved river), and a number of odd inspirations, one biblical, several inspired by newspaper items, and even one (gasp!) Science Fiction. There are also some non-fiction articles which will be coming along later in the year. I love them all partly because he wrote about what he loved and I love it too, but partly because his characters are thoughtful, compassionate and real. I've included a few notes that he kept in the file. Some are news articles he drew his ideas from; others are comments he received from editors either printed in the magazine or sent along to him separately. I've also tried to reproduce the illustrations, duly credited, as all the stories that published were supported by visual art. Only one, Casual Enemy, has no illustrator mentioned. My guess is he drew that one himself. I've read all these stories several times in my efforts to get them up onto the web-site correctly and I've never tired of them. I hope you enjoy them. A fair warning: some readers might recognize a few people! Alan Evans NEXT PAGE R Lewis Evans War Stories Casual Enemy (As Published in “Boating Magazine”, Vol. 18, no. 3, April, 1942) by Lewis Evans PIERRE TREMBLAY put down his pipe and listened. The hollow chug of a diesel engine had suddenly broken the silence of the bay as some craft rounded the steep headland at its outer end. “No running lights,” the old French-Canadian murmured to himself, and then he smiled at his own comment, for his own little work boat, anchored close under the rugged hillside near the head of the bay, carried no riding light. The bays off the Saguenay River are deep—thirty to a hundred fathoms; small craft have to anchor close to shore in order to find bottom, and lights of any kind attract mosquitoes from the woods. The jarring clang of a bell slowed the engines of the incoming craft, and Pierre sat back and drew on his pipe again. She was the “Phantome”. He knew that engine bell—it had been cracked for years. The “Phantome” was a diesel-engined coaster with a shady history. Five years ago, meeting her under the same conditions, Pierre would have known that she was bootlegging cheap French liquor from St. Pierre and Miquelon in the Gulf of St. Lawrence to the dry counties up river. Not much money in that game now, though, and the “Phantome” had been out of it since her crew had had to jettison a cargo worth well over a thousand dollars, and the pursuing government patrol boat had just enough evidence to get Xavier Bouchard, the “Phantome’s” captain and Pierre’s sister’s son, two years in the Quebec jail. Well, he hoped that Xavier was up to nothing that might get him into trouble again. That jail sentence had nearly broken his mother’s heart, for she was a gentle and pious woman. Perhaps he was netting salmon—that would get him a fat fine if he were caught, but the government boats were too busy trying to keep the St. Lawrence free from German submarines these days to worry about coasting vessels breaking the Fish and Game Laws. Only a week ago a freighter had been torpedoed out in the Gulf, not so very many miles from the Saguenay. Two patrol boats had already claimed the destruction of the submarine. Why couldn’t Xavier get some honest work, and save Marie, his mother, the anxiety which was making her old before her time? Honest work was to be had easily enough these days, though Pierre himself was not too sure what kind of a job he could pick up now that this work on the fish-hatchery dam was over. His had been the supply boat for that—a government project to build a salmon hatchery on the stream that emptied into the bay. Today the dam had been finished, the gang had been taken out by launch, and Pierre’s boat was loaded with shovels and picks, unused food stores, cement and dynamite. Ah well—he’d get something to do. There was work going on aboard the “Phantome” — sounded like heavy oil drums being rolled along the deck. Surely they would not be shifting their cargo at this time of night. Still no lights, and only occasionally came a subdued order. Pierre could see nothing — bateme, but the night was a black one. Then came the louder rumble of oil drums — empty ones. Pierre suddenly stood up and peered into the darkness. Surely Xavier could not be such a fool . . . but still, the St. Lawrence was a long way from Germany, and diesel engines needed fuel oil, and Xavier had always liked easy money . . . Quietly Pierre hauled in the painter of the ten-foot flat-bottomed boat that served him as tender. As he eased himself aboard he remembered to leave his pipe behind — the dynamite was stowed in the tender for safety’s sake. Two stealthy strokes with a paddle moved him away from his boat. The tide had begun to rise and a slight current set round the bay, drifting him towards the “Phantome”. At last he could make out the shape of the coaster, her stump mast, and the wheelhouse at her stern dimly silhouetted against the mouth of the bay. Pierre peered at her waterline . . . was there? . . . yes — a long, low, shelving shape protruded astern of the coaster. The submarine lay on the far side of the “Phantome”. Pierre worked his boat back against the tide, which was running more strongly now, and almost bumped his work boat before he saw it. He got aboard and sat down, holding the tender’s painter. Poor Marie — what would she do if Xavier got into trouble for this piece of work? And this might be only the first of many refueling episodes. Straightening up with decision, Pierre hauled his tender to that side of his boat farther from the “Phantome”. Leaning over, he worked fast. Once he paused to peer at the position of the coaster, once to dip his hand into the current slipping past the side of his boat, testing its strength. He rummaged in the cockpit and came up with a large reel of cod line, one end of which he secured to the tender. Leaning over the smaller boat and opening his coat wide as a shield, he struck a match. An end of fuse lay in the bottom; he lighted it and doused the match quickly. Manoeuvring the tender round the stern of his boat, he felt to make sure that the cod-line was not snarled, and then gave the tender a long, gentle push towards the “Phantome”. Sitting down, he carefully paid out the line as the little craft, in the grip of the tide, asked for it. The rumble of oil drums on the “Phantome” had ceased, and now came a clanking. She was weighing anchor. Pierre gave his tender more slack and felt her take it up. Slowly the coaster’s anchor chain clanked inboard, and her engine was started up. So much of the cod-line was now in the water that Pierre could not feel a definite pull from the tender, but he went on giving slack. The cracked engine bell jangled aboard the “Phantome”, and her propeller kicked ahead slowly. The clanking of the chain had ceased. Pierre found that the end of the cod-line was in his hand. Knowing the length of the line, and praying that his judgement of distance was right, he pulled in a fathom or two, and crouched in the cockpit. Suddenly there was a hoarse shout in the darkness — the tender had been seen. Pierre tensed, gripping the cockpit coaming. Then a flash lit the bay — lit up for a second the silver streak of the submarine stretching forward from the flash, three figures on the deck frozen in their movement, and the “Phantome” clear of the submarine and heading out of the bay. Pitch darkness blinded Pierre; a scrap of wood clattered into the cockpit beside him — of the tender’s gunwale, by the feel of it; his ears, deafened by the blast, heard dimly confused shouts and the hurried thump of the “Phantome’s” motor as she fled out of the bay. The old man, trembling a little, hauled up his anchor and started his motor. Expecting a fusillade of rifle shots at the very least, he zig-zagged along close to shore, heading for the open. No shots followed him, and he rounded the headland and dropped his hook in the next bay down the river. On such a night that explosion should have been heard in Tadoussac, two miles away at the mouth of the Saguenay. If so surely the patrol boat based there would investigate. Not long afterwards he heard the drone of the patrol boat. It swept up the Saguenay towards him, its searchlight probing. Pierre hastily lighted his running lights and got under way back towards the bay. The patrol boat caught up to him just off the headland. Pierre pointed towards the bay and was left rocking in the wake of the grey launch. By the time he had rounded the head the patrol boat was almost alongside the submarine, her searchlight and gun trained on it. There was no resistance, however, for the submarine was submerged and aground at the stern, her bow protruding from the surface at a sharp angle, her crew clinging to the deck. Apparently the blast had occurred near the stern, which had gone down, while the forward part of the hull remained buoyant. Pierre drifted up to the patrol boat. “What do you know about this?” demanded the Naval Reserve Lieutenant in command. Pierre explained, partly in French and partly in broken English, with expressive gestures, but not mentioning the “Phantome”, which by now should be far up the Saguenay, frightened to death but above suspicion. The Lieutenant expressed his amazement profanely, and added: “Meet us in Tadoussac. The government will be very grateful . . .” Marie would be grateful too, if she knew, thought Pierre. “And we'll get you a new tender and some more dynamite,” went on the officer. “Oh, the dynamite — it belonged to the government anyway,” said Pierre. The End He heard a yell and the sound of quick movement from the pit as he swooped towards it and tossed the grenade Monte Cassino Downhill (Published in The Montreal Standard, Spring of 1944) Lieutenant Johnny Martin takes a long chance on a tricky slope by Lewis Evans ILLUSTRATED BY GEOFFREY TRAUNTER TO USE his own expression, Lieutenant Johnny Martin was skunked. He crouched and shivered in the hole he had scooped in the snowdrift under a stunted bush and mentally compared it with what the Americans called foxholes in the Pacific battle zones. The only fox that might condescend to call this "home,” thought Johnny, would be an Arctic fox. The miserable shelter in which he crouched was on the southwest shoulder of Monte Cassino, and below him was the valley in which lay one of the main roads to Rome, the valley up which units of the Fifth Army were advancing towards the town of Cassino. Johnny could see the road down there, about a thousand feet below him, and the gaps in it where the retreating Germans had blown up the culverts. He could see the railway line, too, with the twisted girders of a steel bridge sagging into a small river; the Fortresses had fixed that, in a precision daylight attack weeks ago. The slopes on which he lay, and all the other mountains in that jumble of southern spurs of the Appenines, were deep in snow on their summits but on the lower contours the snow became patchy, and down in the valleys mud reigned supreme. The regiment would be wallowing in it as usual, Johnny thought. The Italian weather had been horribly wet for weeks, and turning cold in December had resulted in the unusual amount of snow on the mountains. Well, he thought, at least his snowdrift, if cold, was cleaner than the mud down in the valley. Opposite him to his left were the slopes of a smaller valley running into the main one, and that was where his regiment was. His problem was to rejoin them. The considerable obstacle directly in his way was a small sector of the German defenses, consisting of a machine-gun nest in the lee of a knoll about halfway down the shoulder of the floor of this minor valley. In front of the nest and below the knoll stretched a mare’s nest of barbed wire, protecting the gunners from a frontal charge. Their field of fire covered the lower slopes of the mountain, where the snow gave way to grass and mud. Monte Cassino had been causing the Allies plenty of worry as they hammered their way through ancient Campania. It was crowned by the huge monastery which had been founded by St. Benedict in the year 529, but that historical fact held little interest for the men whose job it was to rid the mountain of Germans. They hoped that the monks had had the sense to clear out before their mountain became a military objective, and wanted desperately to know if the Germans had established any form of artillery in or near the monastery or the ruined castle just below the two valleys and could break up any advance in force towards Cassino. Air reconnaissance had failed to reveal any gun sites, but the two buildings afforded such opportunities for concealment that the risk of advancing without further information was too great—hence Lieutenant Martin’s uncomfortable presence on the mountain and on the wrong side of the remnants of the German rearguard. JOHNNY had been amongst the Canadians who had qualified as paratroopers at an American training camp early in the war, and last night he had been dropped onto the slopes of Monte Cassino from an ugly Lysander Army Reconnaissance aircraft. In the gray December dawn he had scrambled up and onto the monastery courtyard to find the snow lying clean and untracked, and the great stone well standing in the middle as it had stood through the centuries of war and peace. Then he had slithered down to the ruined castle and satisfied himself that the Germans had established no artillery in either place. Possibly, Johnny thought, they considered the buildings to obvious, too likely to be bombed flat by Allied planes. Into the first rays of the morning sun as it rose behind the Allied armies Lieutenant Martin had flashed the pre-arranged signal which told the watchers that the buildings hid nothing of military importance, and then he had started for home. Worming his way down the shoulder he had seen the machine-gun post. He had expected something of the sort somewhere, and after reconnoitering enough to find that there were other similar nests on other parts of the lower slopes which the advancing troops would probably have to silence by mortar fire, he decided that his only chance was to wait until dark or until the Allied advance had cleared the enemy from their positions. So he lay and shivered, and considered the terrain below him. As the hours crawled by the sun warmed him a little, and the surface of the snow melted. Like spring snow in the Laurentians, thought Johnny, and his memory conjured up visions of Hill 70 at St. Sauveur, and beer and singing in the pub at night, and ski races against Dartmouth, and the Quebec Kandahar on Mont Tremblant, in the days when he was a Red Bird and used to ski for McGill. He thought of standing on the brow of Hill 70 in the cold brightness of a Sunday morning and watching the Montreal train, looking ridiculously small from where he stood, pulling into the station, and the unbelievable number of skiers who poured out of it and fanned out towards their favorite hills. From the stationary locomotive a great white plume of steam would go up like a huge mushroom, and yet he would be looking down on its top, just as he was looking down on this valley and the occasional mushroom of smoke from a bursting shell as some German gunners far up the main road searched for the Allied advance units. SUDDENLY Johnny’s gaze centred on a movement halfway down the slope and well to the right of the machine-gun post. Working round the shoulder of the hill was a man in the white parka of a ski-trooper, and to Johnny’s incredulous eyes he appeared to be on skis. He had apparently come from the steep zigzag road which connected the monastery with the valley below, and where another of the enemy outposts was. From his actions as he traversed the hillside he appeared to be carrying a load, and Johnny figured it must be ammunition or food for the post directly below. His surprise diminished as he realized that the man would hardly dare approach the post in daylight without that white protection, for a field uniform would be seen against the snowy slope from the other side of the valley. Perhaps the Germans had some mountain-trained and equipped regiments here. Their organization was supposed to be efficient and controlled by such inflexible rules that they might easily have sent skis with troops who were to fight in mountainous country even if the mountains were in Southern Italy. The skier moved on and eventually came to the post, stooped to undo his harness, and then dropped out of sight over the lip of the emplacement. Johnny’s thoughts ran on the subject of skis and skiing. Looking down over the machine-gun nest by the knoll and its protecting wire, he idly wondered whether a good skier taking off from the knoll could clear that wire below it. It might be possible, he figured, as the lower face of the knoll was cutaway steeply and the wire ran close under the face. The landing would be too flat for comfort, he thought, but one could hardly expect a natural jump to have everything. If he had some skis he could wait for night and the moon, which was strong, and then run straight for the knoll, lob a grenade into the nest as he passed, and hope that his speed would take him clear of the wire before he landed. If the grenade did its job and if no other machine- gun covered that field of fire — and he had seen no other post close enough to do so — he might ski on down to the snow-line and find cover and perhaps his own advancing units beyond that. Oh, well — what was the use of wishing? — but it seemed silly that after volunteering for a special ski course and being bored to death learning to “bear-walk” and do the “crawl” all over the snowy flats of Petawawa he should need a pair of skis in Southern Italy, of all places. The sun was sloping westwards toward the Mediterranean, and the air was getting colder. Johnny Martin thought of the long night on the mountain – he did not dare seek shelter in the monastery or the old castle as some of the Germans might have the same idea. Another twelve hours before he could reasonably expect his friends to attack – Johnny shuddered. “If I stay here all night,” he said to himself with a smile that was a bit grim, “I shall probably wake up in the morning with a very bad cold in the head – if I wake up. And if the attack doesn't drive those Germans away, or if we don't attack at dawn, I may have to stay on and on.” Anything was better than that, he thought. If that fellow in the parka would start back, and if he could get his skis. . . Johnny got out his large scale map. There was Monte Cassino, there was the winding road from the monastery to the valley, and there was the contour line followed by the skier from the road to the macine-gun emplacement. Johnny's finger followed along the contour line and stopped where it swung deeply in towards the mountain and out again. That must be a stream or stream-bed seaming the slope, he knew. If he could meet the skier in that gully they would be invisible from anywhere but directly above or below; they would be, as it were, in a fold in the ground. JOHNNY MARTIN got going. He wriggled out of his foxhole, and keeping the height of the drift between him and the post below he crawled up the shoulder towards the ruined castle, and then bore to the left towards the upper end of the gully. He reached it and slithered into it. It was just what he had expected – a rocky stream-bed with a trickle of water from the day's melting, a trickle that would be a torrent if the weather warmed up a little. Johnny scrambled down it till he came to the tracks made by the skier crossing the gully on the way to the post, and then he crouched by a rock a little uphill from the tracks and where he could see them disappear around the shoulder of the slope. The sun had gone, and visibility was being cut down to a few yards, until at around nine o'clock the rising moon should increase it considerably. Finally Johnny heard the indescribable sound of skis over snow, and a figure loomed against the sky-line. The Canadian gripped the icy butt of his automatic and tensed himself for a spring. The skier slid into the gully, lost his balance as his ski tips hit the opposite slope, and crashed with a grunt. He grunted once more – a grunt of surprise – as Johnny jumped on him and slugged at his head with the heavy gun. Johnny struggled to strip off the man's parka and heard it rip as at last it came away. Then he freed the skis and picked them up, together with the single ski-pole the German had been using, and started climbing up the gully with his spoil. Back in his shelter in the drift Johnny waited while the moon cleared the silvery summits of the distant hills. His plan was a chancy one, he knew, but he could not face any more hours in the damp cold and inactivity. WAITING for the moonrise he adjusted the leather harness to fit his boots, and his thoughts went back to cable bindings and long arguments before log-fires on the merits of super-diagonal and other down-hill devices. “'The time has come,' the Walrus said . . .” murmured Johnny and stretched himself flat on his skis. Using his hands and feet as a seal uses its flippers he slowly and cautiously tobogganed down the slope as far as he dared. There was a bush a hundred yards or so above the emplacement, and there he stopped. Beyond was the clear, steep ground, ground bathed in moonlight where he would be spotted if he tried to sneak across, then the knoll with the shadow of the weapon pit to one side of it, and dimly seen below the knoll was the tangle of wire. Crouching, Johnny got his feet into the harness and produced his two grenades from under his parka. One he left on the ground by the bush – he would only have time to use one, and he didn't like the idea of taking a mighty tumble with enough explosive on his person to blow him to bits, safe though grenades were supposed to be until the pin was out. Slowly he straightened up and launched himself forward. His skis gathered way, and for a moment his mind flipped back to a mad moonlight race on Mount Baldy one March long ago – then he was checking with a forced stem in the yielding snow and pulling the pin from the grenade. His skis came parallel again and he heard a yell and the sound of a quick movement from the pit as he swooped towards it and tossed the grenade in. Then he was on the knoll with his knees bent deep, snapping straight as he crossed the lip of the mound, and he had a blurred impression of white ground surging up at him and a roar from behind him. His skis hit the snow and he wavered, steadied, hit a bump and crashed with a cracking sound that he hoped was breaking skis, not rifle fire. He struggled up to find one ski intact and the other broken off short behind his foot. On he plunged towards the darkness of the valley, trying to keep most of his weight on the unbroken ski. A clump of bushes loomed up and he swung round it in a forward leaning turn that would have been appreciated on the Taschereau run, only to see a great patch of snowless ground beyond it. He tried to stop but his skis bit the earth, and he somersaulted madly. In the first roll his head hit a chunk of half-frozen turf and he was unconscious as he hurtled into a depression in the ground where a very large Canadian sergeant and two men with evil designs upon the German machine-gun nest were setting up a mortar. EVER since dark the sergeant had been heaving his bulk forward from cover to cover to get within range of that emplacement. To have his prospective target blow up for no good reason at all was one thing, he thought, but to have a one hundred and eighty pound unconscious lieutenant impinge on his stomach at that time of night was something else again. Johnny Martin came to dizzily to hear the sergeant emphatically muttering what seemed to be a prayer – except that the words were in quite the wrong order. The End NOTE: It was the following article in the February 7th, 1944 edition of the Globe and Mail newspaper which gave Dad the idea for this story. The (fuzzy and difficult to read despite my best efforts) original is included below. Germans Shell Abbey Housing Own Troops Montecassino Monastery (arrow) high above the town of Cassino, was founded by St. Benedict in 529, on the site of ancient Temple of Apollo. By C. L. SULZBERGER - New York Times Special to The Globe and Mail. Copyright With the 5th Army in Italy, Feb. 5 (Delayed).—German artillery, for some peculiar and perverse reason, today shelled the famous old monastery atop Monte Cassino where the Benedictine Order was born, although there is every reason to believe some of their own troops were within the vast abbey which the enemy is believed using as an observation post. Shortly after 3 p.m. this correspondent happened to be looking at the historic landmark above the lacerated town of the same name, where American troops are slowly battling their way forward in vicious street fighting, when geysers of smoke billowed from the abbey, standing out clearly in the crisp, bright atmosphere. As the smoke drifted southward in huge clouds, careful scrutinizing through binoculars revealed no visible damage. In order to ascertain the reasons for this extraordinary event, since Lt.-Gen. Mark W. Clark has issued strictest orders to his army not to fire on the abbey or any other papal property or a series of specified clerical buildings unless it is a question of the most vital military necessity, the writer made a careful inquiry among American artillery officers. Major A. J. Peterson, Minneapolis, Minn., who observed the same bursts and then inquired of various artillery observation outposts in the immediate vicinity of the monastery, said: “We could identify the shell bursts. There was one direct hit on top of the abbey. Our observers were able to plot the direction of the shells. They came from the north, in the Atinia region, and from the northwest which areas are in enemy hands.” Meanwhile, further evidence of Nazi violation of those few courtesies remaining in modern warfare was received when a French prisoner who escaped last night informed Allied authorities the Germans were forcing British, American and French captives to carry ammunition and dig positions in the Cassino vicinity. These prisoners are forced to labor under the shellfire of Allied guns, and there have been casualties among them. The Frenchman escaped during the night in the confusion following an especially heavy Allied barrage on Cassino positions still held by the Germans. He said that to the best of his knowledge, 12 Englishmen, six Americans, and two Frenchmen still remained with the enemy as prisoners in his group, doing forced labor under fire. Of Assistance to the Enemy (Published in the Montreal Standard, Date unknown) By Lewis Evans ILLUSTRATED BY BEN TURNER “AND SO,’’ concluded the announcer who was summarizing the news in French over Radio Rimouski that night, “of the ten German long-range bombers which made an attempt at five o’clock this morning to destroy the great dams at the head of the Saguenay River, seven were brought down by interceptor aircraft from Bagotville and Mont Joli before they reached their objective, one dropped its bomb load harmlessly into the waters of Lake St. John and was brought down by anti-aircraft fire, and the remaining two fled south from the fighters towards the St. Lawrence, jettisoning their bombs over uninhabited parts of the Laurentians. The crews of these two bombers are believed to have bailed out over the north shore of the St. Lawrence, as their aircraft were observed to crash in the river some miles off-shore. These men are being sought by military units and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. So ended the first enemy attempt to do to a Canadian industrial centre what the British succeeded in doing to the Mohne and Eder dams in Germany some time ago.” Old Captain Tremblay switched off the radio in the cabin of the coasting schooner St. Casimir, tied up at the wharf in Ste. Catherine’s Bay at the mouth of the Saguenay, and listened for a few moments to the comments of his companions as they continued their late meal. Outside, rain had come up on the rising east wind, and the three French-Canadians who formed his crew did not hurry over their food. They were in no haste to return to the rain-swept wharf and get on with the job of loading the St. Casimir with pulp logs. The Captain reached for his battered green-covered copy of “The St. Lawrence River Pilot” and turned to the chapter that dealt with the mouth of the Saguenay and the waters of the St. Lawrence in that vicinity, for he and his ship usually plied farther upstream, and his present route was not a familiar one. With his finger on the place he looked up. "Get going,” he ordered. “About twelve more cords to load. Tide’s full now. so the sooner we can sail the better — the ebb will be in our favor, and I don’t want to waste it.” “The three men, two deckhands and an engineer, put on their sodden caps and went out. Climbing the steep face of the dock they mounted the pile of four-foot pulp logs and bent to their work. With one hand they drove their short hooks into the logs and jerked them upwards, and then hook and free hand heaved them forward and downward into the semi-darkness to land with hollow thunder on the St. Casimir’s wooden deck, illumined by the half-hearted floodlight permitted by the dim-out regulations. When half an hour before midnight Captain Tremblay came out on the bridge to see how the work was going, the twelve cords on the wharf had become six and his men were on the schooner's deck converting the jumbled pile into a well-stowed deck load. The east wind had increased and even in Ste. Catherine’s Bay, sheltered by reefs from the open St. Lawrence, small waves were bunting the schooner against the wharf and her rubbing strake groaned from time to time on the massive piles. The Captain moved aft to slacken a taut mooring line, for the tide had dropped a foot or so. When he turned back there were four men on the deck amidships instead of three. As the newcomer’s shadow came between them and the light the workers straightened up from their task and stared. “Good evening,” said the stranger. “May I speak with your Captain?” He spoke in French, but each of the men listening knew at once that he was no French-Canadian. He was speaking careful school-book French, as most English-Canadians and Americans do. The engineer indicated Tremblay with a gesture and the stranger turned towards him. “Captain, you have a small boat—” he jerked his thumb aft, where the schooner’s lifeboat hung on davits across her stern— “and I want you or one of your men to take me out beyond the reefs to the St. Lawrence. I will pay you what you ask for your trouble.” “Impossible, monsieur,” exclaimed Tremblay. He motioned towards the pulp logs. “We have work to do and besides, the weather ...” He gestured vaguely towards the rainy darkness off-shore, and through his mind went the words he had heard less than two hours before—“The crews of these two bombers are believed to have bailed out over the north shore of the St. Lawrence. . .” “Nonsense!” said the stranger rather abruptly, and he took a step nearer the Captain. “There is no sea to speak of, and I saw from the wharf that your boat has an engine. I will pay you well. I must insist.” Tremblay was silent, staring at the man before him, a tall, fair fellow, bareheaded, who kept his hands in the pockets of a raincoat so soaked and dirty as to be colorless in that dim light. At length he spoke. “No sir,” he said firmly. “It can’t be done.” It was no surprise to him when his words seemed to lift the stranger’s right hand— and Luger—out of the pocket. “Listen, Captain,” said the German. “I am in a hurry. You or one of your men must take me where I want to go — out beyond the mouth of the Saguenay.” “Submarine!” murmured the Captain, stating a fact rather than asking a question. “Ha!” said the other. “You’ve heard of the bombing. There are U-boats at points off the north shore tonight and we were instructed to get to them if we could. You see my position — I will stand no foolishness. Make up your minds — will one of you take me, or . . .” THE CAPTAIN’S eyes travelled over the German. The man was tired — that was obvious. His clothing bore the marks of a day-long battle with the Laurentian bush. A tired man, but the tired man held the gun, and was impatient. The Captain turned to his men. “Lower the boat,” he ordered. The three men turned slowly and shuffled aft to uncleat the falls, conscious all the time of the gun behind them. Captain Tremblay followed. He was under no illusion — that Nazi might shoot one or all of them, whether they did as he told them or not. The blocks squealed and the eighteen-foot boat slid towards the black water. Tremblay glanced over his shoulder and saw the German peering at the illuminated dial of a military pocket compass—but the Luger in his other hand was still on the job. He turned to the German, who was putting the compass back in his pocket. “I’ll go with you,” said Tremblay decisively - and out of the corner of his eye he noted his men’s heads turn suddenly toward him. “That little compass you have - it's no good in a small boat because of deviation caused by the engine . . . and there are reefs outside, you know, and cross-currents. You must have a man with you who knows these waters.” “And you know them?” asked the German drily. “I was born near here,” stated Tremblay, conscious of the stares of his crew, who knew well that he was a Baie St. Paul man. The German was no fool. He saw the men stare and he saw the craftiness in the Captain's eyes, so naive that he almost laughed aloud at it. He could trust him as far as he could see him — and not even that far in a small boat. “Good,” he said. “Get into the boat, then, and start the engine.” Tremblay’s stomach felt cold. He had tried to make the man suspect a trap, and he did not know whether he had succeeded. He turned and swung over the schooner's rail and dropped into the boat under her counter. The German moved up and straddled the rail so that he could watch both Tremblay and the men on deck. The Captain set about priming the engine. After a preliminary cough or two it spluttered to life. The Nazi swung his other leg over the rail. “You make one move from where you are and I'll shoot your Captain,” he threatened the three men on deck, and then he, too, dropped into the boat. “Cast off those ropes and then get back aboard,” he ordered Tremblay. “Back aboard?” echoed the Captain. “Maybe you know these waters too well. Get back,” snapped the German reaching for the clutch lever, and as the other took a grip on the ropes hanging over the schooner's stern he eased it forward. The propeller bit the water and the boat shot forward and was swallowed up in the windy darkness. As Captain Tremblay climbed over the rail the three men on the St. Casimir's deck looked at one another and then all broke out talking at once. The Captain said nothing but made straight for the cabin, where he slumped onto a chair by the table on which still lay the battered green pilot book, open as he had left it. The others followed him in, jabbering. “Why did you offer to take him?” demanded one of the deck hands angrily. The Captain looked up wearily. “Because I wanted him to go alone. I remembered your Marie, Jacques, back in Baie St. Paul. She seemed too eager for the wedding, so you jilted her.” The deck hand’s puzzled look slowly gave way to one of understanding. Suddenly the engineer broke in. “Shouldn’t we go ashore and find a telephone?” he asked. “Perhaps a patrol boat could be warned to pick him up.” The Captain roused himself. “Telephone? Yes one of you had better report about the submarine.” “But the airman,” insisted the engineer. "Couldn’t they—” “They won’t get him,” stated the Captain. The finality of his tone fixed their questioning glances on him, and in explanation he pushed the open pilot book across the table towards them. “Read that,” he said, pointing to a paragraph. “It’s what I was studying after supper.” The engineer picked up the St. Lawrence River Pilot and read the paragraph aloud. “ 'The Mouth of the Saguenay River . . . The ebb tide from the Saguenay River on meeting the ebb from the St. Lawrence sets up very heavy tide rips, so strong as to interfere with the steerage of a vessel. When these ebbs are opposed to a heavy easterly gale, a particularly dangerous cross-sea is raised, which is considered dangerous to small craft, and in which no boat could live’.” The End The Sitting Duck (Published in The Montreal Standard, Date unknown) By Lewis Evans ILLUSTRATED BY GEOFFREY TRAUNTER THE LANDING BARGE lay as still as if she were floating on the fog rather than upon the waters of the North Sea. Somewhere, invisible, the sun was rising, and slowly the thick fog turned from black to grey. For the first time in hours the R.C.N.V.R. Lieutenant on the bridge could see the lines of his ship before him—that is if a medium sized landing barge can be said to have any lines at all. Lieutenant McNeil doubted it, and never could look at the scow-like bulk of his craft without seeing in his imagination the dashing motor-torpedo-boat he had hoped to command. At her very best speed his landing barge could hardly be called dashing, and for the greater part of an hour she had been anything but — she had been left powerless by a defective unit in her reduction gear. McNeil resisted the urge to go below again to see how repairs were progressing. He might as well stay where he was, and if he was sweating with impatience he knew well that the Petty Officer below was sweating too — sweating blood to get the repairs effected. Somewhere to the south and east was the attacking-force of which his craft was supposed to be a part — by now it should be fifteen miles away and almost grounding on the long, low sandy beaches of the Belgian coast, but there had been no sound of gunfire as yet. When his engines had failed he had had simply to drop out of the armada, the dense fog and strict radio silence preventing from letting even the commanding officer know of his plight. NO ONE but the commander of the force knew whether this attack was part of the real thing, the invasion itself, or merely one of the dress rehearsals or feints promised by the Prime Minister. Whatever it is, thought the Lieutenant as he gazed down into the waist of his ship, it will have to get along without those two tanks. He could just see them now, crouched one behind the other, facing the closed ramp at the bow, and their crews lounging round them and smoking. Suddenly McNeil raised his head and listened. Then he glanced at the Leading Seaman in the other wing of the bridge. He, too, had heard the faint throbbing and was peering into the blankness of the fog ahead. The Lieutenant crossed to him. “What do you make of it?” he asked quietly. “Sounds quite close, sir, but faint. Certainly not an aircraft — might be an M.T.B. or an E-boat throttled right down.” They listened again and the subdued hum continued, punctuated once by a faint clang. The killick swung toward McNeil. “Sub, sir!” he whispered urgently. “Surfaced and charging her batteries — that clang could have been a hatch-cover.” “Go forward,” ordered McNeil, “and tell ’em to keep completely quiet. Send someone below to tell the engine-room, too — and find out how much longer they’ll be.” “Aye, aye, sir.” The Leading Seaman slid down the ladder into the waist of the barge. The Lieutenant went from one to the other of the machine-gun crews at either end of the bridge and warned them. Their weapons were designed to ward off low-flying aircraft, and would be practically useless against the sub’s gun. The sun’s warmth could now be felt, and soon the fog would thin away. “That’ll be the pay-off,” thought McNeil, and resolved that while landing barges usually were known by numbers rather than by names, this one might well go down in history as “The Sitting Duck.” “Don’t know about history,” he added aloud, “but we might well go down.” THE IRONY of the situation struck him. For months as the junior officer in a Fairmile he had patrolled the Strait of Gibraltar hoping for a chance at a sub, and the nearest they had got was to let fly at a rock awash in the seas in the grey light of a dawn such as this. In consequence they had become the butt of their flotilla until a few weeks later when their flotilla leader made the same mistake himself with the same rock. Now, here he was with a sub within three hundred yards, and instead of commanding the M.T.B. or Fairmile that he had hoped for when he got his second stripe, instead of having a fighting ship to meet this opportunity, all he had under his feet was a glorified ferry-boat. The men were still lounging by their tanks, but their little motions and gestures of a moment ago had ceased. They were very still, very quiet. The Leading Seaman silently rejoined the Lieutenant on the bridge. He looked straight up into the sky above the ship, and then peered again towards the source of the steady humming. “Fog’s getting thinner, sir,” he said. “Whatever it is, it seems to be dead ahead.” McNeill resisted a light-headed temptation to say, “Wish it were dead, ahead,” and at that moment the Leading Seaman stiffened and pointed. Right over the ramp at the bows McNeil could make out a darker blur of fog. “Oh for a gun, a real gun,” he thought, and then swung towards the killick. “Lower the ramp,” he ordered, and threw himself down the ladder and made for the sergeant in charge of the forward tank, leaving the killick wondering if the Lieutenant had gone crazy. FOR MONTHS of the tank gunner's training he had been prepared to deal with various beach defences. Now as the ramp before him ponderously swayed outwards and sloped away to a level position he saw, framed in the gap, the silhouette of a submarine against the receding fog. “Gaw’ love me,” he muttered, spinning wheels efficiently, “join the Army and see the world." Figures rushed to the sub’s gun and it swung towards the landing barge. The tank gunner fired and as the barge shuddered at the shock there was a great splash close to the sub’s conning-tower. A shell from the sub screamed over the barge, carrying away the wireless mast. “Get his gun, blast you!” yelled McNeil in the general direction of the tank. He was back on the bridge and on either side of him the machine-guns were chattering ineffectually, for the sub’s gunners were protected by a gunshield. He afterwards thought that, though his words were inaudible in the surrounding bedlam, he had been rather rude to the tank gunner who, after all, was performing somewhat in the capacity of a guest artist. The tank’s second shell was over, but its third took the sub’s gun fair and square, and that was that. The figures on the sub's conning-tower disappeared and slowly her deck became awash — she was submerging. “Red, one-four-five, a ship, sir,” called the Leading Seaman. "Destroyer - one of the Hunt class, sir.” McNeil gave it a brief glance and then went on watching the disappearing conning tower. The sub had moved forward and was no longer ahead of the barge – the tank gunner could no longer see his target. IN A MATTER of seconds the destroyer plowed through the swirl left by the U-boat and let go a pattern of depth-charges. “That ought to fix 'em,” muttered the killick. Apparently the destroyer thought so too, for she paid no further attention to the sub but swung in a wide arc and steamed past fifty yards from the landing barge. MacNeil could see a figure in the wing of her bridge, and a megaphone pointed in his direction. “Quite a fighting ship you have there,” came the voice. “Good luck!” and the destroyer melted into the remnants of the fog, bent on her own urgent affairs. As an engine room artificer stepped up to MacNeil and said, “All set now, sir,” far to the southeast all hell broke loose. “The Sitting Duck” hauled up her ramp and set off towards it. The End Surprise Party Published in "The Standard" (date unknown, $20.00!) By Lewis Evans ILLUSTRATED BY ROY DYER HIS SUBMARINE idling at periscope depth in the cold waters of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, Ober- leutnant Seidel watched the plume of smoke climb over the horizon. It was still too early to figure the ship’s course and manoeuvre into effective range, and far too early to identify the type of ship. “Well,” he thought to himself, “at least she is no Banks fishing schooner—not with that plume of smoke.” He still regretted the expenditure of his last but one torpedo on that fisherman two nights ago. She had been running under auxiliary power, and with her stump masts he had mistaken her size in the gathering darkness. An investigation of her wreckage with the sub's searchlight had revealed several broken-backed dories and a mess of cleaned and salted codfish, and his second in command had looked for a moment as though he wanted to laugh. Ah, well, the destroyed schooner didn’t look so badly in the sub's logbook as “motor-driven coastal cargo ship.” Oberleutnant took another long look at the approaching vessel. She was no destroyer, anyway—her slow speed and broad beam told him that. He made out derricks on her foremast—that ruled out a corvette. She was steaming almost at right angles to his bows, and would pass about two miles ahead of him. He decided to close in, and grated an order to his second. The order echoed from man to man in the steel hull, and the sub began to move. Five minutes passed, and then Seidel slipped off his stool. “What do you make of her?” he asked his second in command, motioning him towards the eyepiece. That officer peered for a minute. “Flushdecked,” he muttered, “A tanker, sir but . . .” He hesitated, still peering. “But what?” “Her engines are amidships, sir. Unusual for a tanker.” Seidel took up his position at the periscope again and had another look. Then he lowered the periscope below the surface, ordered half-speed, and turned a superior smile on his puzzled second. No wonder the fellow was puzzled, thought Seidel—the ship was unusual, all right, but he knew what she was. Just before the war he had been on a training cruise and had put in at Bergen, and there he had seen a vessel with a peculiar stern like that. “She’s a whale factory,” he said, and laughed at the expression on the other’s face. “The Norwegians had such ships before the war — South Atlantic, mostly. There is a great ramp in the stern, and they used to pull a whale’s carcass aboard whole and do all the work of a whaling station while keeping up with the trawlers that did the actual harpooning. Our friends must be very short of ships if they’re using that tub for cargo-carrying.” He took another sight at the ship. He could see her ensign flying from a gaff on her mainmast, but it was either too dirty or too distant for him to tell whether it was Norwegian or British. His thoughts went to the single torpedo in the forward tubes, and to the long trip home. Then he looked at the expressionless face of his second in command and made his decision. He didn't want it said that he had expended his last two torpedoes on a fishing schooner and a whale factory, of all things. “We’ll surface and attack by gunfire,” he said. Bells rang and the gun crew got ready for their dash to action stations. The sub lifted towards the surface. ABOARD the ex-Norwegian whale-factory Odda a lookout had reported a periscope off the starboard bow, distant the best part of a mile. Gongs had clanged for action stations, and the ship held her course. The R.C.N.V.R. lieutenant on her bridge was pleased. “Not forty miles from where the Coastal Patrol plane reported wreckage of that schooner yesterday,” he thought. He glanced astern over his strange command and saw the men who handled the smoke-pots at their stations right aft. He could not see the old whale-ramp because of the superstructure amidships, but he could imagine the scene there . . . the fifty foot motor-launch in her sliding crib, her bow towards the Odda’s stern, her high-powered, specially cooled engines warmed and idling, her crew tense and watching the great steel flap which cut off the after end of the ramp from the sea, the rows of depth charges on the launch’s after deck. “Sub on starboard beam!" Two lookouts dead-heated on the shout. There she was, white water pouring from her decks, about half a mile off. As her gun crew swarmed on deck a machine-gun from the Odda started an intermittent chattering, and a gun crew staged a well-rehearsed rush for their antiquated weapon mounted on a bridge-like structure over the ramp astern. When their first shot eventually got away it raised a spout of foam just where they wanted it—three hundred yards wide of the sub and a little short. The first shell from the sub screamed over the Odda’s bows. The second hulled her forward, at the waterline. The lieutenant on the bridge thought of the watertight bulkheads and the whale-oil tanks now crammed with buoyant lumber, and grinned. His quartermaster, according to plan, swung the ship towards the sub to close the distance, and the sub altered course to port to evade any ramming action by the Odda . Another shell from the sub crossed the Odda’s bows and a fourth burst on the superstructure abaft her funnel. The whale-factory’s machine-gun fell silent, but it had not been hit. The smoke-pots astern burst into acrid life and their contents billowed over and around the Odda’s stern. The lieutenant snapped an order and a clang from far astern told him that the great flap had been lifted, and he could imagine the released crib sliding smoothly aft with its load. "Surprise, surprise!” he murmured happily to nobody in particular. The motor-launch’s heavily guarded screws were already turning as she took the water, and then she was out of the smoke and roaring for the sub, a heavy machine-gun on her bow searching for the gun crew, and echoed by renewed fire from the Odda’s guns. OBERLEUTNANT SEIDEL knew all about the “Q-ships” of the last war. He was not to be fooled by them, but this was different. He took one more amazed look at the grey shape bouncing towards him, ordered a crash dive, and threw himself down the conning-tower hatch. His gun crew, less three men who had been hit, scuttled for safety. As the sea foamed over the submerging U-boat the launch roared past parallel to her, not twenty feet away, and two ash-cans set for eight fathoms plopped into her seething wake. The Oberleutnant’s thoughts at this moment, freely translated into English, would have been “Let’s get to hell out of here,” which is precisely where he got. The End Down To Heaven (Published in “The Standard” Montreal, September 27, 1941, $12.50!) By L. EVANS He dropped to Earth and thought he was in heaven HIS packed parachute bumped clumsily against the back of his thighs as he crossed the dark field towards the sound of the idling motors. He tried to make himself believe that this was just another practice, that he was still in training, but the horrible emptiness in his middle gave him the lie. He was scared, and he was thankful that the darkness hid his face. He and his companions groped their way into the big transport and sat down. A dim light forward showed them the pilot and navigator, their heads bent over a map. Helmut stared at them fixedly, hoping that concentration of his mind would prevent him from being sick — sick with fear. Their job was simple, he thought. They just had to fly high to certain points, dump their living cargo, and fly home. Compared with his job theirs seemed easy, safe, comfortable. IT was the unknown that frightened a man thought Helmut. The plane crew knew what to expect in the way of danger - attack by fighter planes, anti-aircraft fire, or forced landing on land or sea. But he - Helmut - how could he know what was in store for him? Death, probably; death or capture certainly. But how? Before or after he had done his job on the power plant? How? A sentry’s rifle? A night watchman’s baton? A farmer’s pitchfork? Helmut shuddered and closed his eyes. The plane took off, climbed gradually, and steadied on its course. There’s the difference, thought Helmut suddenly. The plane crew’s brightest hope is return, and my brightest hope is capture. The very best I can expect is capture and internment. A fine thing my life is, when prison seems like heaven! The plane droned on through the black night, flying very high and very steadily. The parachutists began fidgeting with their equipment. They’re scared too, thought Helmut, but the younger ones, anyway, are partly afraid of failing in their task. They know only this stern life, and they are efficient. So am I, or I wouldn’t be here, but I am older. I can remember another way of life. The navigator made a signal, and two men moved towards the door. Another signal, and they were gone. The plane altered course, and in a few moments the navigator’s gloved hand reappeared. Two more men dived into darkness. MY objective is the third we come to thought Helmut, and the waiting is over. I am not afraid of the jump - I know all about that part of the job. I fear only the unknown future. The glove moved and Helmut flung himself into the blackness and cold. The opening ’chute jerked him savagely, and gradually his dizzy swinging slowed down. As he drifted downwards he tried to figure the direction and force of the wind, if any. That was the first thing - to fix his own position, and then to find the power plant. The little fear he felt about landing was lost in the great fear of the unknown future, and he felt little relief when he dropped on open ground, though it might have been a wood or a power line. His, efficient training showed as he quickly got rid of his parachute. He did not have to think - his hands busied themselves and the complicated tangle of ropes and material was stowed under a stunted bush. Luminous compass in hand, Helmut crouched, listening. The silence terrified him. He felt the whole hostile countryside of England round him, deadly still, but ready at any moment to extinguish this lone enemy by some unknown unpredictable action. Helmut forced himself to read the compass, putting it on the ground and getting as far from it as sight permitted, so that the metal in his equipment would not affect the needle. He was supposed to have been dropped two miles south of his objective; so he started to move northwards. If he did not find it in the first half hour he would start circling east and west. He crept on across the field, surprised that it took him so long to reach its boundary. He expected a hedge - England was covered with hedges, they said. HE encountered no hedge - he came to wire. A fine seven foot barbed wire fence, and on each side a barbed wire apron, arranged with ingenuity. Helmut stared at it in amazement. According to his instructions the power plant was the only important point in the district, and therefore the only one likely to be so protected. Could he have hit upon it already? He could cut his way through the fence, but those aprons would take time. He decided to move along the fence to the west, and perhaps he would find a spot where the aprons were less formidable. A hundred and fifty yards to the west he stopped. The fence made a right-angle turn - to the south. Helmut was inside the angle. His training made him turn east, retrace his steps, and he moved faster than before, with less regard for stealth. Two hundred yards or so, and another angle - turning south. His stomach cold as ice, Helmut threw one look over his shoulder and started cutting the wire. Whether he was inside the defenses of the plant or not he would need some means of exit. He would make a passage through the wire, and then find out what lay to the south. He cut rapidly and the apron gradually yielded a passage. Suddenly he paused. Someone was coming - a sentry? A flashlight flicked on and off. Helmut’s training sent his hand towards his gun. A cut end of wire scraped on the shears in his left hand. The flashlight’s beam cut the darkness, wavered, and then fixed on him. Helmut froze. A safety catch clicked. So this was the unknown. “Don’t move,” commanded the advancing voice. Then - “Wot the ’ell! It’s a ruddy parashooter! Come out of that, Jerry, you’re home. You’ve landed inside an internment camp." The End NEXT PAGE

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Third owner of Dufferin House who also bought Dale park, later to be called Parc Languedoc Dale, Henry & daughter Katrine Third owner of Dufferin House who also bought Dale park, later to be called Parc Languedoc Back to ALL Bios Henry Dale 1849 - 1910 & daughter Katrine Dale 1888 - 1905 Henry Dale was an American, born in Philadelphia, the son of Gerald Fitzgerald Dale (1816 – 1886) and a direct descendant of Governor Dale of Delaware. His mother was Elizabeth (Sparhawk) Dale (1820 – 1907). Henry married Elizabeth Ramsen Keroy and became the third owner of Dufferin House which he referred to as The Cottage. His gardens were above the house where the school now stands, and probably the stables were there also. He also owned land extending from the eastern boundary of Dwight Park out to Pointe Rouge, much of which is now known as Languedoc Park. (The stone gate in front of the Evans’ Windward Cottage was the original entrance to Dwight Park which extended up the hill to Languedoc Park.) The road into the park opposite the farm was known as Dale Road. Henry Dale had a carriage road going down to Pointe Rouge where, with horse and carriage, he is said to have circled the ‘fairy circle’ each morning and returned home for breakfast. While Henry owned the park, he planted alder bushes to prevent erosion and to provide shelter for other seedlings. After the tragic death of their daughter, Katrine, at age seventeen in 1905, the Dales stopped coming to Tadoussac and in 1911, a year after Henry’s death, his estate sold Dufferin House to Robert Harcourt Carington Smith. In 1920 Mrs Dale sold the land above Pointe Rouge for $1,400 to Erie Russell Janes (wife of George de Guerry Languedoc) who designed and built Amberley, the cottage later purchased by Adelaide Gomer of Ithaca, New York. Henry Dale died in Poughkeepsie, N.Y. in 1910. He was described in his obituary as a Philadelphia and New York businessman. He belonged to the Aldine and Lawyers’ Club of New York and of the Union League Club of Philadelphia. He died at his home which was called The Hemlocks. Alan Evans Sources: Obituary The Sands of Summer by Benny Beattie From Ainslie: Katrine Livingston Dale – Henry Dale’s daughter? Not his wife, she was Elizabeth Ramsen Keroy Dale. Dale’s Parents – Gerald F Dale 1816 – 1886 Elizabeth Sparhawk Dale 1820 – 1907 Daughter died at the age of 17 in 1905 Henry Dale born in Pennsylvania, - 1849 – 1911 62 years old Dale’s Siblings - Elizabeth Dale Wilson – 1845 – 1886 41 Gerald Fitzgerald Dale - 1846 – 1886 40 Chalmers Dale – 1853 – 1907 54 Alan Evans & Susie Bruemmer Back to ALL Bios

Interesting places on the Saguenay River near Tadoussac La Rivière Saguenay Endroits Intéressants Cool Places on the Saguenay River Pointe à la CROIX Pointe à la Croix Pointe à la Croix L'origine de la croix n'est pas connue, mais il y a des références à la Pointe à la Croix dans 2 livres, de 1889 et 1891. La croix a été remplacée au moins quatre fois ! The origin of the cross is not known, but there are references to Pointe à la Croix in 2 books, from 1889 and 1891. The cross has been replaced at least four times! Circa 1930, tea (with china teacups!) on Pt à la Croix, at center my grandmother Emily Evans, and my father R Lewis Evans Vers 1930, thé (avec des tasses en porcelaine !) sur Pt à la Croix, au centre ma grand-mère Emily Evans, et mon père R Lewis Evans This was the old cross that was mounted on Pointe à la Croix, the little point jutting out into the Saguenay River, from the east below the cliffs between Anse La Barque and La Boule bay. This one fell down and somebody put up another...the cross is dated 1941, the vertical piece on which it stood up supported by a pile of rocks was missing at the time we brought it home, about 1971 (tag by Jack Molson). This cross was replaced by R Lewis Evans and Tom Evans in the early 1970's C'était l'ancienne croix qui était montée sur la Pointe à la Croix, la petite pointe qui s'avance dans la rivière Saguenay, par l'est en contrebas des falaises entre l'Anse La Barque et la baie de La Boule. Celui-ci est tombé et quelqu'un en a posé un autre... la croix est datée de 1941, la pièce verticale sur laquelle elle se tenait soutenue par un tas de rochers manquait au moment où nous l'avons ramenée à la maison, vers 1971 (tag de Jack Molson) . Ce croisement a été remplacé par R Lewis Evans et Tom Evans au début des années 1970 The cross fell down again and was replaced by Tom Evans and friends! 2005 La croix est retombée et a été remplacée par Tom Evans et ses amis ! 2005 more coming soon... 11

Mary Elizabeth (Minnie) Rhodes 1857-1942 & Henry Francis (Harry) Morewood 1855-1916 NEXT PAGE PREVIOUS This page under construction

ALL HOUSES Barn NEXT PAGE The Barn has a long history, it is about 150 years old! Built shortly after the main Rhodes house in the 1870's, the Barn has been Kitchen, Scullery, IceHouse, Maid's Quarters, Chicken Coop, and Summer Cottage! The "Barn" was built shortly after the main Rhodes Cottage was built in 1860, and at first served as maid's quarters, ice house, larder and kitchen for the main house. When the Rhodes Cottage burned in 1932 and was rebuilt in 1933, the new house named Brynhyfryd included a kitchen and servants' rooms. Chickens were kept in the Barn until it was converted into a summer cottage in 1934. Letter from Enid Williams, October 1981 The "Barn" has had many uses. First I understand it was built by Col. Rhodes as a kitchen for the big house. The maids slept upstairs, the kitchen being downstairs. The meals were carried over to the big house. When it rained, one maid carried the food and another carried an umbrella. When the big house was done over, the Barn became a place for the chickens. I am not sure if they kept a cow there as well. Eventually it was done over by Mr Frank Morewood and made into a house, in the year 1934. When my father-in-law [Lennox Williams] died and my husband [Sydney Williams] inherited the Barn [1959], he made a few alterations, such as the picture window. The original beams are still being used but are covered up. Mrs Williams bought some land from Mrs Dwight when the Barn was completed [1934] on the Lewis Evans side. I can't think of anything more about the Barn, but I do remember the chickens there when I was married. Sincerely Enid Williams From Michael Alexander Lots of people stayed there. During the War I stayed there with my mother. Jean and Johnny Aylan Parker, Ron, Jim and Ted and I were there when the S.S.Quebec burned at the Wharf - great view from the bedroom up stairs! Bob and Nan Leggat were there at least one summer. It was a great place for all the excess people at Brynhyfryd and quite a popular spot to be. Only thing - it was a long way from 8 o'clock morning prayers led by Grandad (the Bishop) in the Brynhyfryd living room - a command appearance for all before breakfast - every day! The Barn "The Barn" a une longue histoire, elle a environ 150 ans ! Construite peu de temps après la maison principale de Rhodes dans les années 1870, la grange a été la cuisine, l'arrière-cuisine, la glacière, le logement de la bonne, le poulailler et le cottage d'été ! La "Barn" a été construite peu de temps après la construction du cottage principal de Rhodes en 1860 et a d'abord servi de logement de bonne, de glacière, de garde-manger et de cuisine pour la maison principale. Lorsque le Rhodes Cottage a brûlé en 1932 et a été reconstruit en 1933, la nouvelle maison nommée Brynhyfryd comprenait une cuisine et des chambres de domestiques. Les poulets étaient gardés dans la grange jusqu'à ce qu'elle soit transformée en chalet d'été en 1934. Lettre d'Enid Williams, octobre 1981 La "Barn" a eu de nombreuses utilisations. D'abord, je comprends qu'il a été construit par le colonel Rhodes comme cuisine pour la grande maison. Les bonnes dormaient à l'étage, la cuisine étant en bas. Les repas étaient transportés dans la grande maison. Quand il pleuvait, une servante portait la nourriture et une autre portait un parapluie. Lorsque la grande maison a été refaite, la grange est devenue un endroit pour les poulets. Je ne sais pas s'ils y gardaient aussi une vache. Finalement, il a été refait par M. Frank Morewood et transformé en maison, en 1934. Lorsque mon beau-père [Lennox Williams] est décédé et que mon mari [Sydney Williams] a hérité de la grange [1959], il a fait quelques modifications, comme la baie vitrée. Les poutres d'origine sont toujours utilisées mais sont recouvertes. Mme Williams a acheté un terrain à Mme Dwight lorsque la grange a été achevée [1934] du côté de Lewis Evans. Je ne peux rien penser de plus à propos de la grange, mais je me souviens des poulets là-bas quand j'étais marié. Cordialement Enid Williams De Michel Alexandre Beaucoup de monde y est resté. Pendant la guerre, j'y suis resté avec ma mère. Jean et Johnny Aylan Parker, Ron, Jim et Ted et moi étions là lorsque le S. S. Québec a brûlé au quai - superbe vue depuis la chambre en haut des escaliers ! Bob et Nan Leggat y ont passé au moins un été. C'était un endroit formidable pour toutes les personnes excédentaires de Brynhyfryd et un endroit très populaire. La seule chose - c'était loin des prières du matin de 8 heures dirigées par grand-père (l'évêque) dans le salon Brynhyfryd - une apparition sur commande pour tous avant le petit déjeuner - tous les jours! 1974 James Lennox Williams 1959 Rev Canon Sydney Waldron Williams East part of property 1940 Ethel Adam (Dwight) 1911 Jonathan Dwight, Jr Previous 1950's? Before the picture window was installed 1980? That's Betty Evans talking to Enid Williams 20 More photos of The Barn below! CLICK on the first one then use the scroll arrows<> 1/20 20 More photos of The Barn below! CLICK on the first one then use the scroll arrows<>

Owner of Spruce Cliff Cottage, Grace was a churchwoman and teacher, and a long-time president of the Tadoussac Chapel Scott, Frances Grace Owner of Spruce Cliff Cottage, Grace was a churchwoman and teacher, and a long-time president of the Tadoussac Chapel Back to ALL Bios Francis Grace Scott 1904 - 1993 Francis Grace Scott was born in 1904, in Quebec City. She lived there until the age of eight when her family moved to Kenmore, New York. She was the daughter of Mabel Emily Russell and Charles Cunningham Scott. Grace taught English at Kenmore West High School for almost forty years. Kenmore was a suburb of Buffalo. Never having married, she lived in the same house for her whole life, looking after her parents. Grace had a commanding presence and was strict and disciplined. Her niece, Susie recalls summers in Tadoussac were quite structured and very social. Grace loved to know what was going on in the village and the door was always open for people to come and visit. For many years she was the President of the Tadoussac Protestant Chapel. One of her lasting legacies is taking her niece, Susie, to church every Saturday morning to practice the hymns for church on Sunday. Grace also had high ideals and morals reflecting the times she grew up in. She was an avid reader and always liked to discuss what people had just read, current events and American politics! She was a devoted lover of dogs, and had several black cocker spaniels. She loved to sit on the back porch with a dog on her lap, looking at the view. Grace loved Tadoussac, and couldn't wait to get there every summer. She inherited Spruce Cliff from her mother Mabel Emily Russell Scott. When summering in Tadoussac, Helen Price, Lily Bell Rhodes, and Adele Languedoc would often stay with her at Spruce Cliff. Her niece, Susie (Scott) Bruemmer also spent many summers staying with her and eventually inherited the cottage. Grace died at the age of eighty-eight in 1993 in Kenmore, N.Y. And is buried in Mount Hermon Cemetery in Quebec City with her parents. Brian Dewart Susie Bruemmer Photos below Mrs Christine Scott, Nonie and Elizabeth O'Neill, Grace Scott Susie Scott (Bruemmer), Aidan O'Neill, Bobby Scott, Katherine and Patrick O'Neill Adele Languedoc, Grace Scott, Elizabeth Stevenson (O'Neill), Phyllis Humphrys, Russell Scott, Shirley?, Margaret Stevenson (Reilley) Back to ALL Bios

Both descended from Tadoussac families, Lewis and Betty wanted to be nowhere else in the summertime Evans, Lewis and Betty (Morewood) Both descended from Tadoussac families, Lewis and Betty wanted to be nowhere else in the summertime Back to ALL Bios Robert Lewis Evans 1911-1988 & Elizabeth Anne (Morewood) Evans 1922-1993 In 1911, Emily Elizabeth (Bethune) Evans, at age forty-six, gave birth to her only child, Robert Lewis Evans. Her husband, the Very Reverend (Dean) Thomas Frye Lewis Evans, was sixty-seven, father of five adult children and grandfather of two young ones. In 1922, Caroline Annie (Rhodes) Morewood, at age forty-two, gave birth to her second child, Elizabeth Anne (Betty) Morewood. Her husband was her first cousin, Francis Edmund Morewood, who was five years her junior. They already had a son, William Harold Morewood. In the summer of 1944, at the Coupe in Tadoussac, thirty-three-year-old Lewis asked twenty-one-year-old Betty to marry him. She said yes, and their lives came together in December of that year. Until the Dean died in 1920, the Evans family had spent their winters in Montreal and every summer in their house in Tadoussac, which at that time was the farthest east of the Price Brothers houses and would later be sold to the Beatties. After his death, however, mother and son moved to Toronto for the winters but still got to Tadoussac each year. Emily sent Lewis to Trinity College School – a boys’ boarding school in Port Hope, Ontario. Lewis liked the school and had positive memories of it. This is remarkable because, on a personal level, these were difficult years. At the age of fourteen, he was hit by a severe case of alopecia, an autoimmune disorder whereby one’s hair falls out, and over the next year or so, he lost all his hair. Between graduating from TCS and starting at Trinity College in Toronto, Lewis was taken on a European tour by his mother. They travelled extensively and visited many specialists in an effort to reverse the effects of alopecia. It was after this tour that Lewis chose to wear a wig, a decision he frequently regretted especially in the heat of the summer. Meanwhile, Betty, one of Col. William Rhodes’s many great-grandchildren, was growing up in Doylestown, Pennsylvania. She attended the Baldwin School for girls and subsequently Bryn Mawr and the University of Pennsylvania. Her family would spend time in Tadoussac most summers, renting rooms in Catelier House (now the Maison du Tourisme). In 1936, her father designed and built a house, now called Windward. From then on, she never missed a summer in Tadoussac. In 1948, Frank and Carrie Morewood sold Windward to Betty and Lewis for $1, and suddenly, Lewis, whose mother had died the year before, found himself with two cottages in Tadoussac. He chose to keep Windward, partly because it was newer, partly because it was politic, partly because of its view, but especially because he could see his boat at its buoy in the bay! At university, Lewis had studied English, graduating in 1933, and Betty had majored in business, graduating in 1944. Lewis followed through on his plan to be a teacher and started his career in 1934 at Bishop’s College School from which he retired in 1972. Any career plans Betty had upon graduation were trumped by her summer engagement and winter wedding... and in the fullness of time, by the arrival of Anne, Lewis, Tom, and Alan. She was of the generation when women were mothers and homemakers, and to these functions, Betty added the role of steadfast supporter of all that her husband did, and BCS benefitted from her unpaid and often unknown contribution. For the first eighteen years of their marriage, Lewis was a Housemaster. Betty knew all the boys and welcomed them into her home as a matter of course. Every teacher new to BCS was invited to Sunday dinner, and she frequently found herself hosting parties for faculty and friends. She has been called a world-class knitter and a world-class worrier (especially about her children no matter how old they were). Meanwhile, Lewis was completely immersed in the life of the school – teaching, coaching, directing plays, and running his residences. He was one of the pioneers of ski racing in the Eastern Townships and spent many hours freezing at the bottom of a hill, clipboard in one hand and stopwatch in the other. He was an example of service and character. When he died, one Old Boy remembered him as “an oasis of calm in an otherwise harsh and demanding school.” Indeed, he was. But his contributions went beyond BCS. From the mid-50s until his retirement in 1972, he spearheaded the Lennoxville Players, directing many plays from British farces to Broadway musicals. This was a group of amateur “actors” from all levels of the community who were, like their leader, looking for an enjoyable night out ... and all proceeds to go to a local charity. In 1972, Betty and Lewis retired to Brockville, Ontario. Here, they joined Tadoussac friends, Ray and Coosie Price and Jean and Guy Smith. From there, they travelled to Tadoussac – for many years by boat. An accomplished sailor, Lewis knew every cove and anchorage on the Saguenay, learned from his own experience, but even more, from local captains whom he respected and adored, and, it would seem, who held him in equal esteem. Over the years, his passion for boats gave way to his passion for fishing. There were many overnight trips up the Saguenay, often to the Marguerite, to fish the falling tide, then the rising, then up early to start again. One can still see him standing in hip-waders off the point above the crib, rod in hand, pipe upside down against the drizzle, as dawn was lighting the sky. Betty and Lewis were practising Christians, and while their church in Lennoxville tended to be the BCS Chapel, the one that they were most committed to was the Tadoussac Protestant Chapel. Betty’s great-grandfather had been instrumental in its creation, and Lewis’s father, the Dean, had, for decades, been the summer priest. In 1972, Betty undertook to organise several summer residents to needlepoint the altar kneeler cushions with images of local wildflowers designed by her close friend Barbara Campbell, and for many years, Lewis served as the secretary on the church committee executive. And then there was golf, which Betty loved, and Lewis tolerated, and bridge, which… Betty loved, and Lewis tolerated. For all their lives, home was where the family was, but Tadoussac was where the family was at home. Their love for Tadoussac is best articulated in Lewis’s memoir, Tides of Tadoussac, which included the Rudyard Kipling quotation: “God gave all men all earth to love But since our hearts are small, Ordained for each one place should prove Beloved overall.” His fascination with the history of the place was likewise revealed in his fictional book Privateers and Traders. Theirs was a great love, a love of each other, a love of family and friends, a love of people and community, and a love of place, and that love of place, of that place, of Tadoussac, has been inherited by each of their four children and by each of their families. William Lewis Evans Back to ALL Bios

Dr. and Mrs. Stevenson were well-known in Tadoussac for providing medical care to the local people Stevenson, Florence Louisa Maude "Nonie" (Russell) & Dr James Dr. and Mrs. Stevenson were well-known in Tadoussac for providing medical care to the local people Back to ALL Bios Florence Louisa Maude “Nonie” (Russell) 1877-1940 & Dr James Stevenson 1878-1957 Florence Louisa Maude Russell was born in Quebec in 1877, the daughter of William Edward Russell and Fanny Eliza Pope and granddaughter of Willis Russell. When she was sixteen, she went to Montreal, ostensibly to visit Trevor Evans's family (he was an old beau from Tadoussac days) but instead falsified her age and enrolled as a student nurse at the Montreal General Hospital. By her own admission, her course marks were never very good, but she was tops when it came to working on the wards. Tall, strong, and energetic, she did twelve-hour shifts and often twenty-four. It was while she was at the M.G.H. that she met her future husband, James Stevenson, who was at McGill University studying medicine. Upon graduation, she returned to Quebec as Night Supervisor at the Jeffrey Hale Hospital, and James Stevenson followed her there as Surgical Resident. They married in the summer of 1905. Ann Stevenson described her parents in her book Nose to the Window, excerpts from which appear below. “Dr Stevenson was born in Montreal in February 1878, the youngest son of Pillans Scarth Stevenson and Annie Story Harris. The Stevensons had come out from Leith, Scotland, where they were ship owners, settling near Ottawa after the Napoleonic wars. They were a large family but we have lost touch with all except the Scarth connection. Dad's mother was a Harris from a Boston family who had married into the LeBrun de Duplessis-Charles family and settled in Montreal. Mum was a completely uninhibited person, especially for a Victorian woman. Her father had taught them all that it was far better to talk about a thing or do it than to keep it inside and stew about it. She loved laughter, bright lights, sweet music, fine furniture and silver, and good food. Reading, other than light novels, was beyond her interest, nor did she do any handiwork or sewing, having lost the sight of one eye during pregnancy, although as a girl she had shown considerable talent with oils. When she hated, she hated with every fibre of her being. When she loved, it was total. There were no half-measures in anything she did. If a project didn't turn out, she kept at it until it did. In spite of her love of life, she was subject to frequent bouts of depression. Dark days depressed her, death frightened her, and thunderstorms terrified her. Then she would pace the floor wringing her hands and shrieking at every bolt. (The house at Tadoussac had been struck when she was a child, and she had been knocked unconscious). She attended church at the Cathedral quite regularly until she took issue with the Dean over a sermon he preached on the text, ‘Think well of thyself,’ and we all transferred to St. Matthew's. She didn't return to the Cathedral until the Dean moved on up the line and became Bishop somewhere. Her Anglicanism didn't prevent her from having a few miraculous medals or making offerings to St. Anthony to help her find lost trinkets. Compassion was her religion. We were taught to pick flowers and take them to the old people at St. Bridget's Home across the street, as we, too, might be old and lonely someday. As a child, I would be sent on the streetcar to take a hot casserole to a destitute widow. Unfortunately, I was also sent on the same streetcar to bring home a bottle of straight alcohol which she kept hidden in her bureau drawer and imbibed secretly at bedtime. (This was before the days of sleeping pills and tranquillizers.) It was also my task to dispose of the empties over the fence of the nearest vacant lot. During this time, she was very unhappy, and she and Dad fought bitterly until the small hours of the morning. Everything Dad did annoyed her, and she didn't hesitate to tell him so. He, in turn, retreated more and more into his books. It was an unhappy time for all of us. Mum was a fabulous cook and fed anyone and everyone who came in her door. She fought a continuous, losing battle with her weight because she had to sample everything to see if it was up to standard. She would hold a piece of cake to her ear and press it lightly to "hear if it had enough eggs in it." Crusty bread, rich cakes, suet puddings, sucre à la crème, and huge roasts issued from the kitchen with joyous profusion, to be devoured by our boyfriends, who enjoyed her company as much as ours. Because of her weight problem, she walked miles each day in all weather and for a while took up curling when walking in the winter was too difficult. In later years Mum's health began to deteriorate. The long hours on her feet, cooking, walking, and working collapsed her arches and she suffered from prolonged and frequent bouts of phlebitis and varicose veins, and probably arthritis. Her heart, worn out by work and the intensity of her emotions, began to fibrillate, and for three years she was too weak to leave her bed. Late in January 1940, I arrived unexpectedly in Quebec to visit her in the hospital. Though no one had told her I was coming, she said to the nurse, ‘Is Ann here yet? Will Elizabeth get here in time?’ They thought her mind was wandering, as it so often had during her illness. Somehow, she who had seen so many people die, knew when her own time had come. She died that night. Dr James Stevenson remained at the Jeffrey Hale Hospital where he was the head surgeon. Although he had great compassion for the widows and the needy, he showed it in very practical ways. When he suspected that little Leontyne Déschênes at Tadoussac had tuberculosis of the hip, he took her out of the hands of the local ‘ramancheur’ (bonesetter) and brought her to Québec for six months of free hospitalization and care. If a person was poor, he never charged a cent. However, he made it up by charging the wealthy patients whatever the traffic would bear. He held free clinics on his weekends at Tadoussac, doing minor treatments on his front gallery. He was a skilful surgeon and a charter fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons (Canada).” ‘Nonie’ Russell and Dr. Stevenson had three daughters, all of whom married and eventually had their own cottages in Languedoc Park on land given to them by their cousin, Erie Russell Janes Languedoc. Margaret Stevenson married John Reilley, Elizabeth Stevenson married Lionel O’Neill, and Ann Stevenson married the Rev. Russell Dewart. ‘Nonie’ died in Quebec in 1940 and Dr. Stevenson died in Montreal in 1957. Brian Dewart (with excerpts from Ann Stevenson Dewart’s writings) Photos below The Stevenson sisters Ann (Dewart), Elizabeth (O'Neill) and Margaret (Reilley) The 3 families, with 8 of the grandchildren, Russell Dewart maybe taking the photo - mid 1950's Back to ALL Bios

Beth had a fabulous childhood in the Languedoc Park, with a love for nature that always brought her back to Tadoussac Rowe, Lucille Elizabeth (Beth) (Dewart) Beth had a fabulous childhood in the Languedoc Park, with a love for nature that always brought her back to Tadoussac Back to ALL Bios Lucille Elizabeth (Dewart) Rowe - October 5, 1948 – February 6, 2021 Lucille Elizabeth (Dewart) Rowe, known as Beth by family and friends, passed away on February 6, 2021. She grew up in Beverly, Massachusetts and later moved to Washington D.C, and Silver Spring, Maryland where she worked and raised her family. She had an extensive career in child education and was a passionate advocate and volunteer for refugee assistance, hunger and homelessness prevention and environmental protection. Throughout her life, Beth spent a portion of most summers as a member of the Tadoussac community. Beth grew up spending Sundays here in this chapel, sitting in her family pew while listening to her dad deliver Sunday services. She loved hymns and enthusiastically participated in ALL choruses while her cousin Grace, and later cousin Susie played the organ. Beth cherished her memories of her times as a kid roaming Languedoc Park and Hovington Farm, playing Kick the Can, participating in Treasure Hunts, swimming in the lake and hotel pool, picnicking at the beach and attending bonfires and tennis club dances. Beth cherished these memories of a simple, wholesome time enjoying nature’s gifts. Like many of us, Tad was a place that Beth always returned to year after year as a place of respite and restoration. Beth loved the scent of the woods, the songs of birds, the thrill of sighting a whale or a shooting star. She particularly enjoyed reuniting with extended family and childhood friends who will always remember her broad, beautiful, infectious smile, her open, selfless, and giving heart and deep, abiding love for nature and family. She is preceded in death by her former husband Clarence Rowe and her parents, Ann and the Reverend Russell Dewart. She is survived by her two sons, Jesse and Keith, her brothers Timothy, Alan, Brian, and William, and her sister Judith. Back to ALL Bios