Search Results

First generation summer residents of Tadoussac and builders of the first summer cottage Rhodes, Col. William and Anne Catherine (Dunn) First generation summer residents of Tadoussac and builders of the first summer cottage Back to ALL Bios Lieutenant Colonel the Honourable William Rhodes 1821-1892 & Anne Catherine (Dunn) 1823-1911 William Rhodes was born in 1821, at Bramhope Hall near Leeds, in England. His father, also named William Rhodes, was a wealthy farmer and a soldier who fought for the British in the War of 1812 in Canada. The older William was a Captain in the 19th Lancers, the former 19th Light Dragoons, and married Ann Smith. Young William was educated in France, and as a second son, he knew that he would not inherit, so his father bought him a commission in the army. He entered the British Army in May 1838 as an ensign in the 68th Foot (Durham Light Infantry). It was in August of 1841 that twenty-year-old William Rhodes came to Quebec from England as part of a military posting and served in Quebec from October 1842 to May 1844. He fell in love with the land, the river, the people, and eventually with a young lady from Trois Rivieres named Anne Dunn whom he planned to marry. The older William did not want his son to marry a colonial and pulled strings in the military to have him recalled but William returned and married Anne Dunn in the Anglican Cathedral of the Holy Trinity, Quebec City, in 1847, and left the army with the rank of captain. Anne Dunn’s grandfather, Thomas Dunn had come to Quebec in 1760, a year after General James Wolfe’s invasion. He administered Lower Canada from 1805 to 1807, and in 1811. Anne’s parents were Robert Dunn, who was an assistant to the Office of Civil Secretary, and Margaret Bell. Her maternal grandfather was Matthew Bell. In 1848, Captain Rhodes and Anne Dunn purchased the estate of Benmore on Chemin St. Louis in Sillery, where they settled and engaged in horticulture. The house remained in the Rhodes family for a hundred years and still stands, although today it is part of a condo development. William Rhodes was known for his experimental agriculture, learning what crops and cattle would best tolerate the Quebec environment. During the 1860s he got into business where he associated with Evan John Price and others and engaged with them in mining in the counties of Wolfe and Mégantic. He was one of the founders of the Union Bank of Lower Canada and of the Grand Trunk Railway, President of Company Warehouse Quebec and the Quebec Bridge Company which eventually built the first Quebec Bridge. He led a delegation on April 12th, 1888, to meet Sir John A. Macdonald and Sir Charles Tupper to lobby for funds to build the bridge. He helped to establish the Quebec and Richmond Railway and the North Shore Line, which later merged with the CPR. In politics, Rhodes was the MP for Megantic from 1854 to 1857. Later, he joined the Mercier cabinet as Minister of Agriculture and Colonization and was elected Liberal MP for Mégantic in the Legislative Assembly in a by-election in 1888. During this time, William and Anne produced five sons and four daughters over a twenty-year period and they were very eager that all of their children be educated and guided into a successful future. Rhodes was an avid hunter and outdoorsman, and the boys were taken on lengthy camping trips in the winter with friends, often returning to Quebec City with sleds loaded with enough game to provision the household for two months. The daughters in the family were not neglected in their education. In one of his many letters to the family in England, he wrote: “… the little girls have now music, dancing, and French masters, to say nothing of sewing machines, pudding making, and English writing. In fact, tuition and all its branches are the order of the day.” It was through his friendship with the lumber merchant Price family that William Rhodes first discovered Tadoussac. A businessman and politician at heart, it wasn't long before he was taking leadership here too. He built the anglophone community's first summer cottage in 1860, and his friends in the Russell family, also of Quebec City, built an exact copy right next door which is still in the Russell family-Spruce Cliff owned by Susie (Scott) Bruemmer. William Rhodes's cottage would have looked exactly like that at first, but then he extended it to accommodate his growing family and it burned down in 1932. Brynhyfryd is the second cottage, built in the same location. Robert Hale Powel was another friend who decided to build a summer cottage in Tadoussac. He bought the next lot, currently the Baileys. It is said the three friends, Rhodes, Russell, and Powel often played whist together. Perhaps it was during such a game that the opportunity was either offered or asked for that William’s sons, Armitage and Godfrey, move to Philadelphia to work in one of Powel’s rolling mills. The boys got experience like any other worker on the machine shop floors where the manual labour was hot and hard. They gradually moved up the ranks learning every aspect of the trade until they became executives in their own right, as leaders in the rail business. William Rhodes and Mr. Russell were part of a group that built the original Hotel Tadoussac in 1864, and it was in a meeting in that new hotel that they committed themselves to building the Protestant Chapel in 1866. His son Godfrey kept a diary that records camping trips when they would row locally built nor'shore canoes up to Baie St. Etienne to camp and fish. But for all the forays out into the wilds, William remained devoted to his first and only love. He wrote of Anne: “… I find her a valuable assistant, in interpreting to me the characters of the young men I have to deal with. (…) Few women have performed all their duties to their children so well and so unceasingly as my wife”. For all his work in business and politics, William Rhodes was a devoted father and, judging by photographs that have survived, he and Anne were lovers of their time with family in Tadoussac. One summer he wrote to a family member: “My family is all down at the seaside at Tadoussac. We are all together which is a great comfort, far preferable to having sons away in India or floating about the ocean on His Majesty’s ships.” Lt Colonel William Rhodes died at Benmore on February 17th, 1892, at the age of seventy. His death was quite unexpected. He had been well but took sick with La Grippe. After the funeral, celebrated in the Anglican Church of St. Michael, he was buried in Mount Hermon Cemetery. The Rhodeses had nine children and twenty grandchildren, all of whom spent significant time in Tadoussac, so it is worthwhile recording some of the descendants here. William’s wife Anne (Dunn) Rhodes outlived the Colonel by twenty years, and it is said that she was a sweet lady; however, with so many grandchildren she became a bit vague as to which child was which. Just imagine the struggle she would have in keeping her descendants straight today! The oldest son was Armitage, and his daughter Dorothy (Dorsh) married Trevor Evans. Their children are Phoebe, Ainslie, Trevor, and Tim, producing nine more Evans, Skutezkys, and Stevens. Next was Godfrey, who bought the estate Cataraqui in Quebec. He had two daughters: Gertrude who died in infancy; and Catherine, who married Percival Tudor-Hart and lived at the estate until her death in 1972. Godfrey built the Tudor-Hart Cottage in Languedoc Park here in Tadoussac. There are no descendants. The third son was William. His daughter Carrie would marry her first cousin, Frank. William and Godfrey had been sent to the United States to work in the railway business, so they lived in the US and William travelled around the world building railways. The fourth son, Francis, married a Quebec girl, Totie Le Moine, from Spencer Grange, another old house that’s still standing in Quebec – currently the official residence of the Lieutenant-Governor. Their two surviving daughters (of four) were Lily Bell and Frances, whom many of us remember fondly. Neither married nor had children. The fifth son was Robert Dunn Rhodes who settled in the United States and had eight children who led to Rhodes, Johnson, and Robes descendants who settled in the Boston area. The sixth child, and first girl, was Minnie Rhodes. She married Harry Morewood, an American, and they had five children including Frank Morewood who married his first cousin, William’s daughter, Carrie. It was Frank and Carrie who built Windward Cottage in 1936 and the Evans and Belton families are descendants. William’s other children were Isobel, known as Billy, John, and Nancy as well as Bobby who had two sons, Frank and Harry Morewood. Seventh, there was Nan who married Lennox Williams. Their children were: James, who was killed in World War I; Mary, the matriarch of the Wallace and Leggat families; Gertrude, who led to the Alexander and Aylan-Parker families; and Sydney, whose descendants include the Williams, Ballantynes, Websters, and Campbells. The eighth and ninth children were Fanny who died in infancy and Gertrude, who married, but died childless at twenty-six years old.   Photos above Anne Dunn and William Rhodes William Rhodes reading to grandsons John and Frank Morewood WR tying his snowshoes from a painting by Kreighoff Photos below The original Brynhyfryd in the 1860's painting by Friend The lawn at Brynhyfryd, WR and his wife are on the right, she seems to have a baby carriage Back to ALL Bios

The Sand Dunes at Tadoussac with Historical Photos, old houses, skiing, the marble kilns and more. The Sand Dunes - Les dunes de sable Moulin Baude circa 1965 circa 1900 A Pine Forest until 1845, when Thomas Simard built a sawmill and cut down all the trees. With some settler families who arrived to farm the thin soil, this was the original location of the village of Tadoussac. Une forêt de pins jusqu'en 1845, date à laquelle Thomas Simard construit une scierie et coupe tous les arbres. Avec quelques familles de colons qui sont arrivées pour cultiver le sol mince, c'était le lieu d'origine du village de Tadoussac. Moulin Baude Also known as the sand dunes, this area has changed substantially since Champlain first described it over 400 years ago, particularly beyond the clay cliffs where the land stretched way out towards where the channel markers are today, much of which is exposed at low tide. He talked about a peninsula jutting out into the river and forming a large natural bay, which provided a sheltered anchorage for his ships. However, the terrible earthquake of 1663, whose aftershocks lasted several months, significantly altered the shoreline, so that it no longer accurately reflects Champlain's early description. The present day sandy plateau and sand dunes were all pine forest until 1845, when Thomas Simard build a sawmill halfway down the hill near the Baude river, just below the stone house at the end of the dunes, and cut all the trees down to feed his mill. After that, several families of settlers appeared and began to farm the virgin soil.The lots and names of these families are indicated on the government cadastral maps made by surveyor Georges Duberger in 1852 at 1876. The hamlet formed by this small farming community was the original location of the village of Tadoussac, the present site then being owned by William Price and the Hudson Bay Company. Wandering around where the houses used to be, one can still find rusty old nails, broken bits of plates, clay pipes and other things. At the far end of the sand dunes, about a third of the way down the hill, was the site of the first sawmill. Down at the bottom, on the beach, there used to be a wharf made from large square timbers and slab wood. The ships would light offshore and a barge would be floated in and tied up at the wharf, resting on the exposed sand at low tide. It would take about a week to load the barge with lumber caught at the mill above. When it was full, it would be towed out to the waiting boat at high tide and the cargo would be reloaded from the barge onto the ship. Moulin Baude Aussi connue sous le nom de dunes de sable, cette zone a considérablement changé depuis que Champlain l'a décrite pour la première fois il y a plus de 400 ans, en particulier au-delà des falaises d'argile où la terre s'étendait jusqu'à l'endroit où se trouvent aujourd'hui les balises du chenal, dont une grande partie est exposée à marée basse. Il parlait d'une presqu'île s'avançant dans le fleuve et formant une grande baie naturelle, qui offrait un mouillage abrité à ses navires. Cependant, le terrible tremblement de terre de 1663, dont les répliques ont duré plusieurs mois, a considérablement modifié le rivage, de sorte qu'il ne reflète plus fidèlement la première description de Champlain. Le plateau sablonneux et les dunes de sable actuels étaient tous des forêts de pins jusqu'en 1845, lorsque Thomas Simard construisit une scierie à mi-hauteur de la colline près de la rivière Baude, juste en dessous de la maison en pierre au bout des dunes, et coupa tous les arbres pour nourrir son moulin. Après cela, plusieurs familles de colons sont apparues et ont commencé à cultiver la terre vierge. Les lots et les noms de ces familles sont indiqués sur les plans cadastraux gouvernementaux réalisés par l'arpenteur Georges Duberger en 1852 à 1876. Le hameau formé par cette petite communauté agricole était le emplacement d'origine du village de Tadoussac, le site actuel étant alors la propriété de William Price et de la Compagnie de la Baie d'Hudson. Errant là où se trouvaient les maisons, on peut encore trouver de vieux clous rouillés, des morceaux d'assiettes cassés, des tuyaux d'argile et d'autres choses. À l'extrémité des dunes de sable, à environ un tiers de la descente de la colline, se trouvait le site de la première scierie. Au fond, sur la plage, il y avait autrefois un quai fait de grosses poutres équarries et de planches de bois. Les navires partiraient au large et une barge serait mise à flot et amarrée au quai, reposant sur le sable exposé à marée basse. Il faudrait environ une semaine pour charger la barge avec du bois récupéré à l'usine située au-dessus. Lorsqu'il était plein, il était remorqué jusqu'au bateau en attente à marée haute et la cargaison était rechargée de la barge sur le navire. This text from Benny Beattie's book, "The Sands of Summer" Sawmill Scierie Moulin Baude Thomas Simard, one of the leading members of the Société des Pinières, known as the Twenty-One, who undertook to colonize the Saguenay region. He established a sawmill at Moulin Baude in 1845 and also at Petites Bergeronnes the following year. Thomas Simard Sr. married Euphrosine Brisson of La Malbaie in 1823. They had three sons: Isaïe, Thomas, and Narcisse. LES VIEILLES FAMILLES DE TADOUSSAC, 1850-1950 Gaby Villeneuve Thomas Simard un des membres importants de la Société des Pinières dit des Vingt-et-Un, qui entreprirent de coloniser le Saguenay. Il établiera d'ailleurs un moulin à scie au Moulin Baude en 1845 et aussi aux Petites Bergeronnes l'année suivante. Thomas Simard, père était marié à Euphrosine Brisson de la Malbaie en 1823. Ils eurent trois fils: Isaïe, Thomas et Narcisse Sawmill-Scierie Sawmill-Scierie Noël Brisson (1867-1945) was a farmer at Moulin-Baude, along with his brother Pépin. He built a stone house there in 1922 (it now serves as a reception building for Saguenay Park). Noël was a good lumberjack, which is why, behind the house, there was a sawmill that burned down in the early 1960s. LES VIEILLES FAMILLES DE TADOUSSAC, 1850-1950 Gaby Villeneuve Noël Brisson (1867-1945) était cultivateur au Moulin-Baude ainsi que son frère Pépin. Il y construira une maison de pierres en 1922, (elle sert aujourd'hui de bâtiment d'accueil pour le Parc Saguenay). Noël était un bon bûcheron, c'est pourquoi, derrière la maison, il y avait un moulin à scie qui brûlera au début des années 60. LES VIEILLES FAMILLES DE TADOUSSAC, 1850-1950 Gaby Villeneuve More evidence of the sawmill in these two photographs, with piles of slab wood (the wood cut off the outside of the trees)in the background Circa 1900 Davantage de preuves de la scierie sur ces deux photographies, avec des piles de dalles de bois (le bois coupé à l'extérieur des arbres) à l'arrière-plan Vers 1900 The first photo might be Piddingtons? The RHODES Family left to right Back row: Frank Morewood (14, my grandfather), his brother John Morewood with a turban, Lilybell and Frances Rhodes sitting on either side of their father Francis, Dorothy Rhodes (Evans) and her father Army Front row: Nancy Morewood, Catherine Rhodes (Tudor-Hart), Charley Rhodes La famille RHODES de gauche à droite Rangée arrière: Frank Morewood (14 ans, mon grand-père), son frère John Morewood avec un turban, Lilybell et Frances Rhodes assis de part et d'autre de leur père Francis, Dorothy Rhodes (Evans) et son père Army Première rangée: Nancy Morewood, Catherine Rhodes (Tudor-Hart), Charley Rhodes More about the Power generating Station on the "Batiments Disparu" page (click the arrow) Plus d'informations sur la Centrale électrique sur la page "Bâtiments Disparu" (cliquez sur la flèche) 37 years later! Peggy Durnford on the left married Elliot Turcot on the right. My mother Betty Morewood (Evans) is at the back, her father Frank Morewood was in the previous photograph. 1937 37 ans plus tard! Peggy Durnford à gauche a épousé Elliot Turcot à droite. Ma mère Betty Morewood (Evans) est à l'arrière, son père Frank Morewood était dans la photo précédente. 1937 Luge sur les dunes s'est avéré très dangereux Tobogganing on the dunes turned out to be very dangerous 1936 ?, Nan Wallace (Leggat)?, Elliot Turcot, ?, Boll Tyndale, Moulin Baude River 1937 ... Betty Morewood (Evans), Bar Hampson (Alexander/Campbell), JohnTurcot, ???, Nan Wallace (Leggat), Elliott Turcot, Peggy Tyndale, ? circa 1950 Skiing on the Dunes 1969 Ski sur les dunes 1969 THE MARBLE QUARRY Champlain and Jacques Cartier both mention the large white pillars of marble in Grande Anse, the next big bay east of Moulin Baude, which could be seen from ships way out in the St Lawrence. However, on closer examination, the white rock turned out to be not marble at all but limestone, and thus remained unexploited until the end of the 19th century. Father Charlevoix, the Jesuit historian and traveller also noticed these white outcrops on the shore, but finding that this strange marble would not polish, discarded it as poor quality stuff. Three round stone kilns, 15 feet high, were built on the shore beside the stream around 1880. The limestone veins were mined, and chunks of calcium carbonate were loaded into the ovens and fired at a very high heat. The rsult was a fine white caustic powder, calcium oxide (lime) which was put in bags and shipped across the river to Rivière du Loup, where it was sold for building purposes. Later, the chunks of white rockwere loaded onto a barge, whwas towed by the goélette "St. Jude" up to Port Alfred, where the limestone was used in the pulp and paper industry. Jude Tremblay, the first blacksmith in the village, and his family operated this industry until the mid 1930's, when the vein ran out of surface rock. A few pieces can still be found in the bed of the stream, which can be reached on a big low tide along the shore from Moulin Baude. (This is not an easy hike!) This area will be more accessible in a few years if the Dunes National Park is created as planned. This text from Benny Beattie's book, "The Sands of Summer" LA CARRIÈRE DE MARBRE Champlain et Jacques Cartier mentionnent tous les deux les grands piliers de marbre blanc de Grande Anse, la prochaine grande baie à l'est de Moulin Baude, que l'on pouvait voir depuis les navires dans le Saint-Laurent. Cependant, à y regarder de plus près, la roche blanche s'est avérée n'être pas du tout du marbre mais du calcaire, et est donc restée inexploitée jusqu'à la fin du XIXe siècle. Le père Charlevoix, l'historien jésuite et voyageur a également remarqué ces affleurements blancs sur la rive, mais constatant que ce marbre étrange ne se polirait pas, l'a jeté comme une matière de mauvaise qualité. Trois fours ronds en pierre de 15 pieds de haut ont été construits sur la rive à côté du ruisseau vers 1880. Les veines de calcaire ont été extraites et des morceaux de carbonate de calcium ont été chargés dans les fours et cuits à très haute température. Le résultat était une fine poudre caustique blanche, l'oxyde de calcium (chaux) qui était mise dans des sacs et expédiée de l'autre côté de la rivière jusqu'à Rivière du Loup, où elle était vendue à des fins de construction. Plus tard, les morceaux de roche blanche étaient chargés sur une péniche, remorquée par la goélette "St. Jude" jusqu'à Port Alfred, où le calcaire était utilisé dans l'industrie des pâtes et papiers. Jude Tremblay, le premier forgeron du village, et sa famille ont exploité cette industrie jusqu'au milieu des années 1930, lorsque la veine a manqué de roche de surface. On en trouve encore quelques morceaux dans le lit du ruisseau, accessible par une grande marée basse le long de la rive depuis Moulin Baude. (Ce n'est pas une randonnée facile!) Cette zone sera plus accessible dans quelques années si le Parc National des Dunes est créé comme prévu. Moulin Baude is a fantastic place! More photographs Moulin Baude est un endroit fantastique! Plus de photos The original settlers didn't settle where Tadoussac is now located, but a few miles away where no one lives anymore. In those early days the trees on the long flat plateau were cut down to feed the sawmill at Moulin Baude. The stumps were removed and the fragile soil was tilled. Several farms prospered for a while, but the good soil formed only a shallow layer on top of the sand, and it was soon exhausted or blown away. Eventually the original area of settlement became a desert, with great sandy dunes descending to the water some 200 feet below. Some older people remember their grandmothers saying that the first village was actually on a bit of land at the base of the cliffs, at the first point south of the dunes. A sandy road angles down through the woods to a small raised area on the shore between the beach and the hillside, where a survey map of 1852 indicates a number of buildings. But because of winter avalanches, the inhabitants move their dwellings to the plateau at the top of the cliff. After a time the farmers moved away from this sandy plateau, some up the Baude river where they found better soil around Sacré Coeur, and others into the curve of the bay near the fur trading post. With the construction of the hotel and a few cottages in the village, jobs became available and some farmers found work. This text from Benny Beattie's book, "The Sands of Summer" Les premiers colons ne se sont pas installés là où se trouve maintenant Tadoussac, mais à quelques kilomètres de là où plus personne n'habite. A cette époque, les arbres du long plateau plat étaient abattus pour alimenter la scierie de Moulin Baude. Les souches ont été enlevées et le sol fragile a été labouré. Plusieurs fermes ont prospéré pendant un certain temps, mais le bon sol n'a formé qu'une couche peu profonde au-dessus du sable, et il a rapidement été épuisé ou soufflé. Finalement, la zone de peuplement d'origine est devenue un désert, avec de grandes dunes de sable descendant jusqu'à l'eau à environ 200 pieds plus bas. Certaines personnes âgées se souviennent de leurs grands-mères disant que le premier village était en fait sur un bout de terre au pied des falaises, au premier point au sud des dunes. Une route sablonneuse descend à travers les bois jusqu'à une petite zone surélevée sur le rivage entre la plage et la colline, où une carte d'arpentage de 1852 indique un certain nombre de bâtiments. Mais à cause des avalanches hivernales, les habitants déplacent leurs habitations sur le plateau en haut de la falaise. Au bout d'un moment les paysans s'éloignèrent de ce plateau sablonneux, les uns remontant la rivière Baude où ils trouvèrent une meilleure terre autour du Sacré Coeur, les autres dans la courbe de la baie près du poste de traite des fourrures. Avec la construction de l'hôtel et de quelques chalets dans le village, des emplois sont devenus disponibles et certains agriculteurs ont trouvé du travail. 48

Entrepreneur et Constructeur de goélettes  Contractor and Goelette builder Imbeau, Armand Entrepreneur et Constructeur de goélettes Contractor and Goelette builder Back to ALL Bios Armand Imbeau Entrepreneur et Constructeur de goélettes Des personnages, certains lieux, des événements sont incontournables à Tadoussac. La baie, une des « belles baies du monde », les dunes et bien entendu, la «Toupie » du haut-fond prince au lointain, la petite chapelle, tous sont des emblèmes distinctifs de l’endroit. Le feu du Ss Québec au quai de Tadoussac en 1950 restera également un évènement qui restera en mémoire. Parmi les gens, on reconnaît assurément les noms de certains témoins du passé. C’est le cas du célèbre capitaine Jos Deschênes et de l’entrepreneur Armand Imbeau, Tadoussaciens dont on a attribué les noms aux traversiers de première et deuxième générations qui font la navette incessante entre Baie-Ste-Catherine et Tadoussac. Bien avant les traversiers, la Côte-Nord a connu l’âge de la navigation dite de nécessité locale: transport de produits essentiels depuis les grands centres vers les villes et villages, et expéditions de ressources naturelles, notamment le bois des moulins à scie de la région vers les centres de distribution. Pour répondre à ces besoins, les constructeurs navals québécois ont développé une expertise dans la construction de bâtiments de bois, à voiles et plus tard à moteur, particulièrement les goélettes à fonds plats permettant un échouage sur la grève pour faciliter le chargement dans les endroits dépourvus de quai. Parmi ces renommés constructeurs de goélettes de la région de Charlevoix et de la Côte-Nord, Armand Imbeau, fils de charpentier naval de Baie-Ste-Catherine. Navigateur, charpentier, entrepreneur, citoyen impliqué dans sa communauté, Armand Imbeau a marqué sa profession, sa ville, sa région et son époque. Imbeau de Charlevoix Le patronyme Imbeau (Imbeault, Imbault ou Imbeaux) était très répandu dans la région de Charlevoix entre le 17e et le 19e siècle. Nous retrouvons les traces de l’ancêtre des Imbeault, François Imbeault (1737-1823) dit Lagrange, militaire français et de sa conjointe Catherine Ringuet, à La Malbaie–Pointe-au-Pic. Graduellement, on note la présence des nombreuses familles de la descendance plus au nord de la région, à Saint-Siméon jusqu’à St-Firmain (Baie-Sainte-Catherine). En fin de 19e et début du 20e, des Imbeau se déplacent sur la Haute-Côte-Nord. (1, 2) Né à Baie-Sainte-Catherine le 30 août 1893, Armand Imbeau est le fils de Thomas Imbeau, de Baie-Sainte-Catherine, charpentier de profession et de Marie Laprise de Grandes-Bergeronnes. Son grand-père, Louis Imbeau travaillait aux chantiers de William Price à Baie-Sainte-Catherine et à Rivière-aux-canards. La famille de Louis comprend de nombreux enfants. À cette époque, plusieurs familles Imbeau étaient installées à Baie-Sainte-Catherine. Thomas, le père d’Armand aura deux autres fils, Lucien, Thomas-Louis (Mrg Imbeau, évêque de Charlevoix) et sept filles. Armand fait ses classes en charpenterie et apprend la construction navale auprès de son père. À l’âge de 25 ans, le 22 avril 1919, il épouse à Tadoussac, Marie-Louise Caron, enseignante à l’école du village (1900 -?), âgée de 19 ans, fille de monsieur John (Benny) Caron et madame Éveline Pedneault de Tadoussac. De cette union naissent quatre enfants; Georgette (Marie-Louise-Emma-Georgette), le 11 mars 1920, décédée le 25 mai 1973. Elle épousera Émile Baril (1904-1989) de Saint-Charles de Mandeville le 30 juin 1956. Le couple n’aura pas d’enfant. Monsieur Baril sera enseignant et directeur de l’école primaire de Tadoussac; Jacques, né en 1924 à Tadoussac et décédé à La Malbaie en 2011. Il épouse le 1er octobre 1949 Jaqueline Gauthier (1930-2013), fille de Hector Gauthier, propriétaire de l’Hôtel Gauthier qui deviendra le Manoir Tadoussac, et de Émilie Brisson. Employé du ministère des terres et forêts, Jacques Imbeau est appelé à travailler à Hauterive et à Havre-St-Pierre. Un enfant naitra de cette union, Claudine, dernière de la lignée de Armand Imbeau; Simonne, décédée très jeune (1927-1939); Rachelle (1933-1937) décédée à l’âge de 4 ans; Jacqueline (19??), qui épouse Rosaire Bouchard (1924-1987) le 15 mai 1954 à Tadoussac. Le couple s’installe à Chicoutimi, parents de deux garçons Pierre et Jean, décédés en bas âge. La cale sèche Imbeau À l’extrémité ouest de la plage, donnant sur la baie avant d’atteindre L’Islet, se trouve à droite, au pied sud-est de la colline de l’Anse à l’eau, une petite crique, un bassin naturel qui prolonge l’Anse à L’Islet, dont une bande de rochers délimite l’entrée: l’«Anse à cale sèche». Se remplissant à marée haute, l’endroit donne accès au fjord profond et facilite l’entrée et la mise à l’eau des navires. Du côté de la plage, l’anse est séparée de la baie par un isthme reliant la presqu’ile à la terre ferme. Certains résidents de Tadoussac s’installent à même la plage de la baie pour construire des embarcations. En 1923, monsieur Imbeau loue l’emplacement à ses propriétaires : la Canada steamship lines. En 1930, il fonde la « Cale sèche Imbeau » à Tadoussac, une compagnie spécialisée dans la construction et la réparation de navires à coque de bois, particulièrement ceux destinés au transport du bois et à la plaisance. La cale sèche sera opérationnelle en novembre 1931. Elle sera creusée à la main l’année suivante pour améliorer sa fonctionnalité. Grâce à une subvention gouvernementale obtenue grâce à l’appui de la municipalité et du curé du Village, les citoyens sont embauchés pour deux semaines au chantier de la cale sèche. Afin de stimuler l’économie locale, au bout de deux semaines un autre groupe de travailleurs prenait la relève afin de permettre à un maximum de personne d’éteint un travail rémunéré en ces temps difficiles. Un bâtiment nécessaire à l’entreposage des matériaux et des outils sont érigés sur les rochers, là où actuellement se trouvent les installations du « Centre d’interprétation des mammifères marins ». On retrouvait dans ce garage, les divers outils du charpentier, tel que des herminettes, plusieurs fers à calfat et maillets à calfat, des tarières, chignoles à main, vilebrequins, planes, gouges, plusieurs ciseaux à bois, scies, égoïnes à chantourner, rabots de toutes grosseurs, etc. De massives portes de bois sont installées à l’entrée de l’anse afin d’y contrôler l’entrée d’eau. Les activités de constructions et de réparations s’y dérouleront jusqu’en 1965 environ, quelques années avant le décès de monsieur Imbeau. L’âge d’or des activités du chantier se situant entre 1930 et 1950. Selon les statistiques gouvernementales d’enregistrement des nouveaux navires, au cours de cette période au moins 300 caboteurs de bois à moteur furent construits au total au Québec, dont près de 40% dans la région de Charlevoix. À Tadoussac, c’est une douzaine de bâtiments qui sortiront de la cale sèche Imbeau, dont le Saint-Jude en 1935, le Victoire en 1936, le Tadoussac Transport en 1938, le Royal Trader en 1939 et le Vaillant en 1943, son bateau personnel, le St-Étienne Murray Bay en 1939, le Raguenau en 1941. Étant donné l’espace restreint de la cale sèche, les bateaux construits devaient être de petites et de moyen tonnage. (3, 4) L’essor industriel d’après guerre et la construction de routes reliant les villes et villages des régions de Charlevoix et de la Côte-Nord contribuent à la diminution des besoins en transport naval et marquent la fin de l’ère des goélettes de même que des petits chantiers maritimes. Armand Imbeau continu tout de même la réparation et l’hivernent des bateaux dans la cale sèche jusqu’en 1965 environ. Homme aux multiples talents, il réalise la construction que quelques maisons. Pour combler le temps libre qui lui reste, il bricole, répare tout ce qu’on lui confie. Il va même jusqu’à faire office de cordonnier, domaine dans lequel il excellait. Lors de la création d’un parc national, le « Parc marin du Saguenay–Saint-Laurent » en 1998, le site alors inactif, est acquis par le gouvernement provincial et intégré au parc. Aujourd’hui, sous l’administration municipale, la cale sèche Imbeau accueille les bateaux de plaisance pendant la saison hivernale. En été, le lieu sert de stationnement automobile pour les touristes. Armand Imbeau: Le citoyen impliqué L’implication sociale de monsieur Armand Imbeau est également notable. Conseiller municipal de 1928 à 1939, il a consacré sa vie à favoriser la prospérité économique de sa région et employait jusqu’à 75 personnes au tournant des années 40. (5) Armand Imbeau s’est également engagé plusieurs années dans les organismes de l’église Sainte-Croix comme marguillier ou encore à la Ligue du Sacré-Cœur. Un événement inusité : Le trésor archéologique Un événement inusité arrive à Armand Imbeau en 1923. L’année suivant son mariage, il achète la résidence de Arthur Hovington située près de L’Islet, sur un plateau surplombant l’Anse à cale sèche, orientée face à la rivière Saguenay, le jeune père de famille s’affaire à creuser la cave en terre battue. A quelques coups de pelles de la surface, il fait la découverte d’une pochette de toile contenant des pièces de monnaie anciennes. Le magot était constitué de 102 pièces. Deux d’entre elles étaient des pièces de métal blanc d’une grande équivalente à une pièce d’un dollar canadien actuel. Elles sont en bon état, sans usure excessive et portent l’effigie de Louis XIV, et date respectivement de 1655 et 1659. Deux autres du même métal sont plus petites et plus usées, datant de 1591. Le reste de la collection comprend des pièces de métal jaune, un peu plus grandes qu’une pièce de 10 cents et sont relativement usées par le temps. Elles sont de la même époque que les deux premières. (6) L’histoire ne dit pas si le « trésor » avait une grande valeur marchande qui aurait enrichi son propriétaire, mais selon les archéologues numismates consultés, la valeur historique est réellement importante. Où sont rendues ces pièces de monnaie? Après un certain temps, Armand Imbeau les donne à son garçon Jacques qui en prend un soin jaloux pendant de nombreuses années. Alors que ce dernier résidait à Hauterive, les pièces disparaissent lors d’un vol au domicile familial. Au terme d’une vie bien remplie, Armand Imbeau s’éteint à Tadoussac en 1969 à l’âge vénérable de 76 ans. Une stèle familiale est érigée au cimetière ancestral de Tadoussac. Il laisse en héritage marquant à son village une foule de réalisations économiques et de contributions sociales. Son nom, qui baptise maintenant deux navires de la Société des traversiers du Québec est connu dans toute la province et au-delà de nos frontières. Daniel Delisle PhD avec la précieuse collaboration de Claudine Imbeau, petite fille de Armand Imbeau Inconnu, Illégitimes en Charlevoix (2), les Imbeault, https://www.touslestemps.net/2-imbeault-1-2/ Inconnu, Illégitimes en Charlevoix (3), les Imbeault, https://www.touslestemps.net/imbeault-2-2/ Frank, A., Les chantiers maritimes traditionnels: il était de petits navires, Continuité, 2001, (89), 37-39 Desjardins, Robert, Les voitures d’eau, le cabotage artisanal sur le St-Laurent, 2013, http://goelettesduquebec.ca Société des traversiers du Québec, https://www.traversiers.com/fr/a-propos-de-la-societe/nos-navires/nm-armand-imbeau/ Bulletin des recherches historiques : bulletin d'archéologie, d'histoire, de biographie, de numismatique, etc., décembre 1923 Armand Imbeau Contractor and Builder of Schooners Certain people, places and events are essential to Tadoussac. The bay, one of the "beautiful bays in the world", the dunes and of course, the "Toupie" from the Prince Shoal in the distance, the little chapel, all are distinctive emblems of the place. The fire of the SS Quebec at the Quai de Tadoussac in 1950 will also remain an event that will be remembered. Among the people, we certainly recognize the names of certain witnesses of the past. This is the case of the famous captain Jos Deschênes and the entrepreneur Armand Imbeau, Tadoussaciens whose names have been attributed to the first and second generation ferries that shuttle incessantly between Baie-Ste-Catherine and Tadoussac. Long before the ferries, the Côte-Nord knew the age of navigation born of local necessity: transport of essential products from the large centers to towns and villages, and shipments of natural resources, notably wood from the sawmills of the region to distribution centers. To meet these needs, Quebec shipbuilders have developed expertise in the construction of wood, sail and later motor vessels, particularly flat-bottomed schooners allowing beaching on the shore to facilitate loading in places without dock. Among these renowned schooner builders from the Charlevoix and Côte-Nord regions, is Armand Imbeau, son of a shipwright from Baie-Ste-Catherine. Navigator, carpenter, entrepreneur, citizen involved in his community, Armand Imbeau left his mark on his profession, his city, his region and his time. Imbeau de Charlevoix The surname Imbeau (Imbeault, Imbault or Imbeaux) was very common in the Charlevoix region between the 17th and the 19th century. We find traces of the ancestor of the Imbeault, François Imbeault (1737-1823) dit Lagrange, a French soldier, and his wife Catherine Ringuet, in La Malbaie – Pointe-au-Pic. Gradually, we note the presence of many families of descent further north of the region, from Saint-Siméon to St-Firmain (Baie-Sainte-Catherine). At the end of the 19th and beginning of the 20th, Imbeau moved to the Haute-Côte-Nord. (1, 2) Born in Baie-Sainte-Catherine on August 30, 1893, Armand Imbeau is the son of Thomas Imbeau, of Baie-Sainte-Catherine, a carpenter by profession, and of Marie Laprise of Grandes-Bergeronnes. His grandfather, Louis Imbeau, worked at William Price shipyards in Baie-Sainte-Catherine and Rivière-aux-Canards. Louis's family includes many children. At that time, several Imbeau families were settled in Baie-Sainte-Catherine. Thomas, Armand’s father, would have two other sons, Lucien, Thomas-Louis (Mrg Imbeau, bishop of Charlevoix) and seven daughters. Armand studied carpentry and learned shipbuilding from his father. At the age of 25, on April 22, 1919, he married in Tadoussac, Marie-Louise Caron, teacher at the village school (1900 -?), 19 years old, daughter of Mr. John (Benny) Caron and Ms. Éveline Pedneault from Tadoussac. From this union are born five children; Georgette (Marie-Louise-Emma-Georgette), March 11, 1920, died May 25, 1973. She will marry Émile Baril (1904-1989) from Saint-Charles de Mandeville on June 30, 1956. The couple will have no children. Mr. Baril will be a teacher and principal of the Tadoussac elementary school; Jacques, born in 1924 in Tadoussac and died in La Malbaie in 2011. On October 1, 1949, he married Jaqueline Gauthier (1930-2013), daughter of Hector Gauthier, owner of the Hotel Gauthier which would become the Manoir Tadoussac, and of Émilie Brisson. Jacques Imbeau, employed by the Ministry of Lands and Forests, is called upon to work in Hauterive and Havre-St-Pierre. A child will be born from this union, Claudine, the last of the line of Armand Imbeau; Simonne, who died very young (1927-1939); Rachelle (1933-1937) died at the age of 4; Jacqueline (19 ??), who married Rosaire Bouchard (1924-1987) on May 15, 1954 in Tadoussac. The couple settled in Chicoutimi, parents of two boys, Pierre and Jean, who died in infancy. The Imbeau dry dock At the western end of the beach, overlooking the bay before reaching L'Islet, is to the right, at the south-eastern foot of the hill of Anse à l'eau, a small cove, a natural basin which extends the Anse à L'Islet, of which a band of rocks delimits the entrance: the “Dry dock”. Filling at high tide, the place provides access to the deep fjord and makes it easier for ships to enter and launch. On the beach side, the cove is separated from the bay by an isthmus connecting the peninsula to the mainland. Some residents of Tadoussac settle on the bay beach to build boats. In 1923, Mr. Imbeau rented the site from its owners: the Canada Steamship Lines. In 1930, he founded the “Imbeau Dry Dock” in Tadoussac, a company specializing in the construction and repair of wood-hulled ships, particularly those intended for the transport of wood and for yachting. The dry dock will be operational in November 1931. It will be dug by hand the following year to improve its functionality. Thanks to a government subsidy obtained with the support of the municipality and the village priest, the citizens are hired for two weeks at the dry dock site. In order to stimulate the local economy, after two weeks another group of workers took over to allow as many people as possible to get paid work in these difficult times. A building for the storage of materials and tools is erected on the rocks, where the facilities of the "Center for the Interpretation of Marine Mammals" are currently located. We found in this garage, the various tools of the carpenter, such as adzes, several caulking irons and caulking mallets, augers, hand chignoles, crankshafts, planes, gouges, several wood chisels, saws, scrolling hands, planes of all sizes, etc. Massive wooden doors are installed at the entrance to the cove to control the entry of water. Construction and repair activities would take place there until around 1965, a few years before Mr. Imbeau's death. The golden age of the shipyard's activities was between 1930 and 1950. According to government statistics for the registration of new ships, during this period at least 300 motorized wood coasters were built in Quebec, of which nearly 40% in the Charlevoix region. In Tadoussac, a dozen goelettes will emerge from the Imbeau dry dock, including the Saint-Jude in 1935, the Victoire in 1936, the Tadoussac Transport in 1938, the Royal Trader in 1939 and the Vaillant in 1943, his personal boat the St-Étienne Murray Bay in 1939, the Raguenau in 1941. Given the limited space of the dry dock, the boats built had to be of small and medium tonnage. (3, 4) The post-war industrial boom and the construction of roads connecting the towns and villages of the Charlevoix and Côte-Nord regions contributed to the decrease in naval transport needs and marked the end of the schooner era as well as small shipyards. Armand Imbeau nonetheless continued to repair and winterize the boats in the dry dock until around 1965. A man of many talents, he builds a few houses. To fill in the free time that remains to him, he tinkers, repairs everything that is entrusted to him. He even went so far as to act as a shoemaker, an area in which he excelled. When a national park was created, the "Saguenay – St. Lawrence Marine Park" in 1998, the then inactive site was acquired by the provincial government and integrated into the park. Today, under municipal administration, the Imbeau dry dock accommodates pleasure boats during the winter season. In summer, the place serves as a car park for tourists. Armand Imbeau: The citizen involved The social involvement of Mr. Armand Imbeau is also notable. A city councilor from 1928 to 1939, he devoted his life to fostering the economic prosperity of his region and employed up to 75 people at the turn of the 1940s. (5) Armand Imbeau was also involved for several years in the organizations of the Sainte-Croix Church as churchwarden or in the League of the Sacred Heart. An unusual event: The archaeological treasure An unusual event happened to Armand Imbeau in 1923. The year following his marriage, he bought Arthur Hovington's residence located near L'Islet, on a plateau overlooking the Dry Dock Cove, facing the Saguenay River. The young father is busy digging the dirt cellar. A few shovels from the surface, he discovers a canvas pouch containing old coins. The nest egg consisted of 102 coins. Two of them were white metal coins of a size equivalent to today's Canadian dollar. They are in good condition, without excessive wear and bear the effigy of Louis XIV, and date respectively from 1655 and 1659. Two others of the same metal are smaller and more worn, dating from 1591. The rest of the collection includes pieces of yellow metal, a little larger than a dime and relatively worn with time. They are from the same period as the first two. (6) History does not say whether the "treasure" had a great market value which would have enriched its owner, but according to the numismatic archaeologists consulted, the historical value is really significant. Where are these coins? After a while, Armand Imbeau gives them to his boy Jacques, who takes care of them for many years. While the latter resided in Hauterive, the coins disappeared during a theft from the family home. At the end of a busy life, Armand Imbeau passed away in Tadoussac in 1969 at the venerable age of 76. A family monument is erected at the ancestral cemetery of Tadoussac. He left as a legacy marking his village a host of economic achievements and social contributions. His name, which now names two ships of the Société des Traversiers du Québec, is known throughout the province and beyond our borders. Daniel Delisle PhD with the precious collaboration of Claudine Imbeau, granddaughter of Armand Imbeau Photo below Armand Imbeau is sitting on the gate of the drydock as the "Hobo" owned by Guy Smith is entering the drydock for winter storage. Back to ALL Bios

Frequent visitors to Tadoussac who stayed at Bayview Cottage with Lex and Mary Smith Craig, George & Micheline (Caron) Frequent visitors to Tadoussac who stayed at Bayview Cottage with Lex and Mary Smith Back to ALL Bios Micheline Caron 1910 – 1969 and George Craig 1902 – 1971 Oh song of Northern Valleys, Played upon the winds That sweep across the wilderness Of tamaracks and pines, In that sweet, wild abandon Of a dark glade midst the trees, Oh, let me drink the passion Of your spirit to the lees. There was a smile you gave me That was native to the land Of wide and tossing oceans And of silver sifting sand, It set my blood a-tingling And I felt the call of love While the northern stars kept twinkling In the Heavens far above. You may, perchance, forget me As years flit quickly by, Perhaps a fleeting memory In a pale star-scattered sky. Not so with me; forever Will I live in that warm bliss – The soft enduring fragrance Of Micheline’s sweet kiss. “Micheline on the Saguenay” by A. G. Bailey Not many people can claim to be the inspiration for a published poet’s work but Micheline Caron could. She is said to have been so beautiful that Canadian poet, Alfred G. Bailey, included the above in his first book of poems called Songs of the Saguenay. Called “Mike” by her English friends and her family, she was also a great cook, so great that her apple and blueberry pies were legendary! Her parents were Anita Dion and Joseph Eugène Caron who lived in Quebec City. Micheline’s great-grandfather, Michel, is credited with bringing the family to Tadoussac. He worked for Price Brothers Lumber at the top of the Saguenay, and for a time was mayor of Chicoutimi. He later moved to Tadoussac, still with Price Brothers, when he was promoted to “Agent de la Couronne pour la Region de Charlevoix et le Saguenay.” In this work he had responsibilities both for the forests and the fisheries. His son, Eugene Caron, (Micheline’s grandfather) was mayor of Tadoussac (1899 – 1927). Up until about 1960 there was a bridge over the gully on Rue des Pionniers leading up the hill toward our chapel. This was named Pont Caron, after Eugene. In Tadoussac, the family lived in the house that is currently the chapel rectory, and then moved to the Coté house around the corner that became the post office. This is the same building that later became the Gite called Passe-Pierre. Micheline was born in Tadoussac in July of 1910, but her family lived in Quebec City and she attended school at the Ursulines. It was in Quebec that she met her future husband, George. George Craig was born in Quebec City in 1902. His father was Thomas Craig, who was the head of the Ross Rifle Company, a very prominent supplier to the Canadian Military in the first part of the century. George attended Bishop’s College School in Lennoxville, a private boy’s boarding school, but finished at the Boys High School in Quebec City. His family was staunchly Presbyterian and it was in a Presbyterian church in Quebec City that he and Micheline were wed on June 22nd, 1935. This suggests a certain bravery on Micheline’s part. She had been brought up Roman Catholic and was told she would go to hell for marrying a Protestant! George and Micheline’s daughter, Louise, (who became known as Popsy) was born in Quebec City but then the family settled in Kenogami where George worked for H. B. Bignal Insurance. This was the company that insured the Price Brothers company, among others. They were great friends with the Prices and their son, Ian, who was born there in 1941, remembers baby-sitting Cynthia Price. He was also a very close friend of Toby Price. When the children were grown up, the family moved back to Quebec City. Both George and Micheline were very enthusiastic about fly-fishing, and very strict in their pursuit of that sport. Wet flies only, please, and, careful adherence to local regulations and quotas. They were very active members of the Onatchiway Fish and Game Club, due north of Chicoutimi, situated in land where the Price lumber company was logging. They loved Tadoussac and also fished locally in the Marguerite River and Les Bergeronnes with their children. When in Tadoussac, Micheline and George always stayed with Mary and Lex Smith who owned Bayview Cottage until the mid-1960s, which was a very busy place in those days, centrally located, with lots of people dropping in. They were very close friends and some summers the two couples would cruise from Quebec City to Tadoussac together on Lex’s powerboat, the Lady Mary. Arthur Smith, who was Lex’s “Uncle Art,” would often drop by in the evenings from where he stayed at the nearby Boulianne Hotel (situated where L’Hotel les Pionniers is today.) On one memorable occasion the Craig family were all out on Uncle Art’s boat, Empress of Tadoussac, and arrived from the Saguenay just as the CSL boat Quebec was entering the bay on fire. They were directed to head out into the river to see if anyone had jumped overboard but thankfully, only found a deckchair. When the Smiths wanted to sell Bayview, George and Micheline’s daughter and her husband (Popsy and Robert) were very tempted to buy it, but they passed on the opportunity in spite of saying that many of the family’s happiest times had been spent in Tadoussac. The cottage was subsequently bought by Dennis and Sue Stairs and has remained in the Stairs family ever since. At the age of 59, Micheline had a very sudden heart attack at her home in Quebec City. She died in her son’s arms before she could even get to the hospital. After her death, George moved to Washington for a short time to stay with daughter Popsy and her family. That worked well at first, but he missed Quebec City where he always felt more at home. He returned, but also suffered a heart attack and died in 1971, two years after he had lost Micheline. Alan Evans and Cynthia Price The center guy in the fish camp photo is George Craig. The Craig family photo is Popsy, Micheline, Ian and George Craig. Bayview Cottage Group Photo George Craig, Mrs. Atkinson (Mary Smith’s mother), ?Dunno?, Mary Smith, Lex Smith, Micheline Craig Ian Craig, Popsy Craig, Susan Smith, Mickey the dog Back to ALL Bios

Spring Migration all photos Anne Belton Tadoussac is positioned in the Atlantic Flyway, meaning that in the spring and fall there are many birds passing through. The spring is particularly good for birding as many stop to rest and feed after crossing the St. Lawrence River and before heading further north. Dark-eyed Junco Evening Grosbeak Blue-headed Vireo Purple Finch Nashville Warbler Golden-crowned Kinglet - this one hit the window and sat stunned for about 30 minutes, then flew away. When this happens you should put them in a safe place - under a chair or something and leave them alone - most will recover. Black-throated Blue Warbler Magnolia Warbler Palm Warbler Cape May Warbler One of a group of flycatchers (Empidonax). This one is probably a Least Flycatcher but you really can't tell unless you hear them vocalizing. Yellow-rumped Warbler, male and female, probably the most common Warbler in the region. There are 2 varieties, Audubon and Myrtle . This one is Myrtle because the chin is white not yellow and the eye patch is black not grey. Blackburnian Warbler - one of the prettiest Warblers - male has a bright orange face, this one flew in to watch 2 White-throated Sparrows having a bath in the melting snow puddle. The one at bottom right is a female. Brown Creeper - these birds fly to the bottom of a tree, climb up searching for food, then fly to the bottom of the next tree. Often hard to see because they are well camouflaged. Bay-Breasted Warbler Black and White Warbler White-crowned Sparrow Ruby-crowned Kinglet - these birds are around all year but hard to see as they are tiny and fast moving. Whenever you see a small nondescript brown bird flitting around, look carefully to see if there is a touch of red on top of the head. Rose-breasted Grosbeak And on the water.... Herring Gull Black-legged Kittiwake Bonaparte Gulls and a Great Blue Heron Double-crested Cormorants - they breed on Lark Reef, here you can see many nests in the rocks, these young birds could not fly away when the boat approaches. The Gulls, Greater Black-backed and Herring nest here as well but quickly leave their babies when approached. Cormorants have no oil in their feathers and have to dry them by hanging them out, preferably sitting on Alan's boat!! Common Loon Black Guillemot juvenile - Adults are all black except for white wing coverts. Note the legs and feet are bright red. Snow Geese - huge flocks can be seen and heard flying overhead in the spring and fall but it is unusual to see them in the summer. These were some of a group of 8 seen in July, 4 of whom had injuries to their wings and could go no further. The mates stay with them until nature takes its course and then rejoin the large flocks Barrow's Goldeneye Common Eider - lots of pairs in the spring, and large groups with chicks seen in the summer. Least Sandpiper - they breed in the Arctic and inter in south US, Mexico and Caribbean Long-tailed Duck, previously called Old Squaw Red-breasted Merganser Summer - birds are busy building nests, feeding young and then fattening up for the long flight south.. Two kinds of Scoters - above Surf Scoter, below Black Scoter. In the picture above 4 males were circling the one female, they swam around and around, sometimes changing direction, all preening and showing off in hopes of being the lucky partner! Lesser Yellowlegs White-throated Sparrow feeding 2 chicks Spotted Sandpiper tried hard to distract me away from her very young chick. Northern Flicker , this pair was being fed by the male and kept him busy. Flickers stay in the area all year. Ruffed Grouse - she had young chicks but was clucking to them as she crossed the road telling them to stay hidden. One poked out for just a second, but the rest did what they were told! Ruby-throated Hummingbirds - every house that puts up a feeder will have these all summer - but remember feeders must be kept clean and no food colouring should be used. Savannah Sparrow This young White-throated Sparrow was eating blueberries! Turkey Vulture Semi-Palmated Plovers - they breed in the Arctic and inter in the south but usually there are a few on the beaches in the summer. Blue Jays are around all year. Red-breasted Nuthatch and Downy Woodpeckers are commonly seen throughout the year Cedar Waxwing Red-eyed Vireo Herring Gull Chipping Sparrow American Three-toed Woodpecker Flowers, butterflies and other small things Blue-Eyed Grass Wild Iris Pink Lady's Slipper Painted Lady Eastern Tiger Swallowtail Atlantis Fritillary Hobomok Skipper Yellow Goatsbeard White Admiral On wet years there and many different mushrooms and toadstools to be found. Other Wildlife This page goes from the largest mammal in the world to some of the smallest creatures we can see - there is beauty in all! Blue Whales - they are in the St Lawrence every year, but not seen everyday. On this trip we were lucky to have 2 swim right past us. Humpback Whales often show their tails when diving, individuals are identified by the white patches on the tail. Their faces are often covered in barnacles - see the bumps... Minke - these smaller whales are seen almost daily in the bay. This one was rolling around so we can see his belly. Mule Deer - this is a rare sight - the only one I have ever seen in Tadoussac. Another rare sighting was the Snowshoe Hare - he is changing from winter white to the summer brown in this picture... note how big the back feet are. A nuisance for most of us are the Red Squirrels , they are everywhere, including in our attics! This one was moving her babies from a tree to under our house! Squirrels are a nuisance but everyone loves the Chipmunks . The one on the right is storing up for winter! 114

From Jill’s painting and drawing, to Buckey’s photography and woodworking, and their collaborative breeding of Great Danes they were a multi-talented couple. Evans, Trevor Lewis Armitage & Gillian Leslie (Jill) (Murray) From Jill’s painting and drawing, to Buckey’s photography and woodworking, and their collaborative breeding of Great Danes they were a multi-talented couple. Back to ALL Bios Trevor Lewis Armitage Evans 1925 - 1996 & Gillian (Jill) Leslie Murray 1927 - 2018 Trevor was born to Trevor Ainslie Evans and Dorothy Gwendolyn Esther Rhodes on February 23, 1925, in Montreal, sibling to sisters Phoebe and Ainslie and brother Tim. He attended Bishop’s College School where he was Head Prefect and captain of the First Hockey Team. He served in the RCNVR (Royal Canadian Navy Volunteer Reserve) in World War Two as soon as he finished school at the age of eighteen, becoming a Leading Seaman on a corvette in the North Atlantic. After the war he attended McGill University at Dawson College for a year, but then decided to follow his father's footsteps into the general insurance business. He worked for the Great American Insurance Company for several years, and then went to Marsh & McLennan, insurance brokers, where he became Executive Vice President for Eastern Canada until early retirement in 1975. He met Gillian Leslie Murray (Jill) in Tadoussac where she was working at a summer job at the Tadoussac Hotel while attending McGill University. They married in 1947. Jill had been born on May 17th, 1927, in Beijing (then known as Peking) China. She led an extraordinary life: a British Subject, born in China. Her father was also born there, the son of Scottish missionaries from Aberdeen, and her mother was of Australian heritage, born in Germany and teaching English in China when they met. Jill lived in Shanghai, England, New York, and finally Canada. All who knew her admired her intellect, gracious humour, and generosity of spirit. She was a talented artist and writer, and as a professional artist Jill created portraits on commission and artistic advertising for a variety of enterprises. She was a devoted mother to their son, David, who also became a devoted artist and photographer. Trevor and Jill enjoyed skiing, golf and curling together, and they raised, bred, and showed Great Danes, co-founding the Great Dane Club of Canada. Jill became a renowned historian of that breed of dogs, and was widely known for her book The Time Traveller an illustrated account of the development of the Great Dane over centuries. Affectionally known as Buck, Trevor was extremely sociable and had a captivating sense of humour. He loved word-play and was a master of comic repartee which he often engaged in while at the family dinner table in Tadoussac. His humour was often outrageously inventive, as when he told his grandson that he could foretell the future: “I know what you will be saying ten minutes from now,” he told his grandson one day. “What, Uncle Buck?” the boy replied. “You’ll be saying, ‘Stop twisting my ear!’” He loved Tadoussac and was a keen fisherman. He is affectionally remembered for a not-so-successful ‘fishing’ expedition that occurred at a family picnic at a small beach just beyond Red Point. He had brought along several cans of beer and to cool them decided to place them in the frigid water facing the picnic site. After some time, he decided to retrieve the beer. What wasn’t accounted for was that in the meantime the tide had risen, and Buck spent a considerable time digging in the wet sand with hands and feet, searching in vain for the precious cans and uttering successively more urgent oaths. He never retrieved the beer but that beach is still known by family members as Bucky’s Beach. Trevor was also an avid sportsman, excelling in hockey and football while at school, and competing at curling and golf as an adult. When a Major League Baseball franchise, the Expos, arrived in Montreal, he and Jill would glue themselves to the broadcasts and keep score of all the vital statistics that sport is famous for. Trevor was also a gifted carpenter and photographer, crafting beautiful custom furniture, and creating a darkroom which he used himself and served as an inspiration to his son who continued the practice. He and Jill eventually decided to move from Hudson, Quebec where they had lived for many years to Saltspring Island, BC., in part because of the moderate climate there, and also to be near his brother Tim and Tim’s wife Claire. Sadly, he passed away in his sleep on February 10th, 1996, the very night they had signed an agreement to purchase a house there. While Jill was understandably stricken by Trevor’s unexpected and sudden death, she stayed with the plan and kept the house. Jill had friends from all over the globe with whom she communicated extensively via social media. She loved her life on Saltspring Island and the many people she knew and cherished there. She volunteered at the library and was an avid bridge player who wrote a column on bridge for The Driftwood. She was a devoted mother and grandmother, sharing her love of language and history with them, always encouraging their creative curiosity about myriad facets of life, and her exceptionally broad experience of living in China, England, the United States, and Canada. Jill passed away peacefully on November 14th, 2018, at The Royal Jubilee Hospital in Victoria, BC. She and Trevor are survived by their son David, their daughter-in-law Gai, their grandchildren, Taylor (Chelsea Rooney) and Lois (Parker Reid), and great-grandchildren Miles and Ruby Reid. Back to ALL Bios

Little is known about Louisa Burns but her Tadoussac connection seems to have been with the Smith family Burns, Louisa Jane 1846(?) - 1921 Little is known about Louisa Burns but her Tadoussac connection seems to have been with the Smith family Back to ALL Bios At the time of the compilation of the book, In the Quiet of This Place we could find nothing about the life of Louisa Jane Burns but since its publication a small amount of information has surfaced. Louisa Jane Burns was the aunt of May Dawson of Toronto and Aileen (Dawson) Smith of Quebec City. She had about ten other nieces and nephews including Charles Carington Smith (husband of Aileen) and Dudley Dawson. I’m guessing Charles Carington Smith was a nephew by marriage. Maybe Louisa’s maiden name was Dawson. Louise was born in about 1846 and, widowed, she was 75 at the time of her death. She lived at 90 Forest Hill Road in Toronto North. At the time of her death, she lived with May Dawson, who was 51, her grand niece and nephew, Carington D. Smith (18) and Noel Lavina Smith (16), and their cook, Emily Helen Padfield (51). It is probable that Louisa came to Tadoussac because of her niece, Aileen’s, connection to the Smith family. She died in Tadoussac on August 4th, 1921. Back to ALL Bios

PREVIOUS Goelettes NEXT PAGE Listen to the Foghorn in the 1970's! Click on the button to hear Tadoussac Harbour Sounds recorded by Patrick O'Neill Waves and Foghorns! Foggy Night at the Beach - Partick O'Neill 00:00 / 00:00 Cliquez sur le bouton pour entendre Sons du Port de Tadoussac enregistré par Patrick O'Neill Des Vagues et des Cornes de Brume! Two terrific photographs from the 1940's. Above, one goelette down to its ribs and others that may be still in use. Lots of boats, canoes, and interesting buildings along the beach. Right, the cover of a book by Camille Pacreau who took many great photos of Tadoussac. Is it the same wreck, if so it has rotated 90 degrees!? Deux superbes photographies des années 40. Ci-dessus, une goelette détériorée et d'autres qui peuvent être encore utilisées. Beaucoup de bateaux, de canoës et de bâtiments intéressants le long de la plage. À droite, la couverture d'un livre de Camille Pacreau qui a pris de très belles photos de Tadoussac. Est-ce la même épave, si c'est le cas, elle a tourné de 90 degrés ! My father, Lewis Evans, was fascinated by the boats in Tadoussac, especially the goelettes. He wrote this magazine article in 1979. Mon père, Lewis Evans, était fasciné par les bateaux de Tadoussac, en particulier les goelettes. Il a écrit cet article de magazine en 1979. JEAN RICHARD The JEAN RICHARD was the last goélette to be built, and one of the biggest. There was an NFB film made about the construction. It often wintered in the dry dock in Tadoussac. The remains can still be found, in Ottawa ! Read on>> Le JEAN RICHARD fut la dernière goélette à être construite et l’une des plus grandes. Un film de l'ONF a été réalisé sur la construction. Il hivernait souvent à la cale sèche de Tadoussac. On peut encore trouver l'épave, à Ottawa! Lire la suite >> The best collection of photos of Goelettes is the Facebook page "Amateur Goelette de Bois du Quebec" (use the button). I've included a few photos and screen shots from this great site! Thanks to everyone for the photos La meilleure collection de photos de Goelettes est la page Facebook "Goelette amateur de Bois du Québec" (utilisez le bouton). J'ai inclus quelques photos et captures d'écran de ce site formidable! Merci à tous pour les photos! Amateur Goelette de Bois du Quebec Paul-Emile Carré, on the left and Philippe Lavoie during the launch of the last schooner of the St. Lawrence: JEAN RICHARD in 1959 JEAN RICHARD, built in Petite-Riviere-Saint-Francois in 1958, was the last Goelette from Charlevoix la JEAN RICHARD, construite a Petite-Riviere-Saint-Francois en 1958, fut la derniere goelette provenant de Charlevoix In 1965 I went to Tadoussac with my family and of course we visited the dry dock, that's me and my brothers on the left, photos by Lewis Evans. The Jean Richard is the biggest! En 1965, je suis allé à Tadoussac avec ma famille et, bien sûr, nous avons visité la cale sèche, c’est moi et mes frères à gauche, des photos de Lewis Evans. Le Jean Richard est le plus gros! JEAN RICHARD was renamed VILLE DE VANIER and used as a tour boat on the Ottawa River. Eventually it sank and was dumped in a stream off the Ottawa River, in Lac Leamy Park. JEAN RICHARD a été renommé VILLE DE VANIER et utilisé comme bateau-mouche sur la rivière des Outaouais. Finalement, il a coulé et a été déversé dans un ruisseau au bord de la rivière des Outaouais, dans le parc du lac Leamy. JEAN RICHARD is still there! Photos from Google Earth JEAN RICHARD est toujours là! Photos de Google Earth If you want to see it, it's easy! Park at the entrance to the graveyard on Boulevard Fournier in Gatineau (Hull). Cross the road and then the pedestrian Bridge , and walk along the shore to the site. It's not visible from the bridge, you have to go through a small forest. It's very impressive! (Summer or Fall is best, when water levels are low) Si vous voulez le voir, c'est facile! Garez-vous à l'entrée du cimetière du boulevard Fournier à Gatineau (Hull). Traverser la route puis le pont piétonnier et longer le rivage jusqu'au site. Ce n'est pas visible depuis le pont, il faut traverser une petite forêt. C'est très impressionnant! (L’été ou l’automne est préférable lorsque les niveaux d’eau sont bas) I went there and took these photos, in SEPTEMBER 2019. There was this object sitting on the bank, VERY heavy, probably lead ballast? That's probably why the Jean Richard has stayed in one place for 30 years. J'y suis allé et j'ai pris ces photos, en septembre 2019. Il y avait cet objet assis sur la rive, TRÈS lourd, probablement du lest de plomb? C'est probablement pourquoi le Jean Richard est au même endroit depuis 30 ans. NFB Film about the construction and launch of JEAN RICHARD. It is 30 minutes long but very interesting. Check out 25:25 for the launch JEAN RICHARD Film de l'ONF sur la construction et le lancement de JEAN RICHARD. C'est 30 minutes mais très intéressant. Départ à 25h25 pour le lancement H.A.B. The H.A.B. rested against the Tadoussac wharf in the late 1960's, where many photos were taken, several by me! The bottom of the boat can still be found on the beach near the Clay Cliffs at low tide. Le H.A.B. reposé contre le quai de Tadoussac à la fin des années 1960, où de nombreuses photos ont été prises, plusieurs par moi! Le fond du bateau peut encore être trouvé sur la plage près des Clay Cliffs à marée basse. Port Alfred, Saguenay, circa 1960 The H.A.B. in the dry dock at Tadoussac, with the yawl of Lewis Evans, circa 1965. Le H.A.B. en cale sèche à Tadoussac, avec le yawl de Lewis Evans, vers 1965. LOUIS G. In about 1958 the "Jamboree" (seen in the corner) cruised the St Lawrence with Lewis Evans, Coosie and Harold Price. Crossing the river in fog on the return trip they followed this goelette for a while, but it turned upriver and they had to strike out to Tadoussac alone in the fog, blowing! a manual foghorn. They were almost hit by a russian freighter that mistook them for a buoy, but lived to tell the tale and bring us the photo. Painting by Tom Evans Vers 1958, le «Jamboree» (vu dans le coin) a navigué le Saint-Laurent avec Lewis Evans, Coosie et Harold Price. En traversant la rivière dans le brouillard lors du retour, ils ont suivi cette goelette, mais ils se sont dirigés et ils ont dû frapper à Tadoussac seul dans le brouillard, soufflant! un brouillard manuel! Ils ont été presque frappés par un cargo russe qui les a trompés pour une bouée, mais a vécu pour raconter l'histoire et nous apporter la photo. Peinture de Tom Evans Below Louis G & CSL Bateaux Blancs ALYS In 1972 I was in Tadoussac with some friends, and two of them were travelling on to the Maritimes via the ferry at St Simeon. On the way to the ferry I took them down to Port au Persil, and we found the Goelette ALYS there on the beach. I had a RolleiFlex 2 1/4 camera and took these photos. En 1972, j'étais à Tadoussac avec des amis, et deux d'entre eux allaient dans les Maritimes par le ferry de Saint-Simeon. Sur le chemin nous sommes descendus à Port au Persil, et nous avons trouvé le Goelette ALYS là sur la plage. J'ai eu un RolleiFlex 2 1/4 appareil photo et a pris ces photos. Above, Aida and Peter Below, Peter and Tom Evans (moi même!) Sheila St Simeon 1972 St Simeon 1972 When signs were bilingual We had my Dad's Ford Station Wagon! Thanks Dad! We had fun! St Simeon 1972 Quand les signes étaient bilingues Nous avions le Ford Station Wagon de mon père! Merçi papa! Nous nous sommes amusés! The best collection of photos of Goelettes is the Facebook page "Amateur Goelette de Bois du Quebec" (use the button) where I found several earlier photos of ALYS in operation which I have included. La meilleure collection de photos de Goelettes est la page Facebook "Goelette amateur de Bois du Québec" (utilisez le bouton) où j'ai trouvé plusieurs photos d'ALYS en opération que j'ai inclus. Amateur Goelette de Bois du Quebec

Guy lived all over the world working in the Canadian Diplomatic Corps Smith, Robert Guy Carington, Isobel (Price) & Jean (McCaig) Guy lived all over the world working in the Canadian Diplomatic Corps Back to ALL Bios Robert Guy Carington Smith 1908 - 2006 Constance Isobel (Price) Smith 1908 – 1944 Jean Alexandra (McCaig) Smith 1903 - 1988 Known to most in Tadoussac as either Poppa or Uncle Guy, Robert Guy Carington Smith was born in 1908, in Quebec City, to Robert Harcourt Smith and Mary Valliere (Gunn) Smith. He was the third of three sons. His older brothers were Alexander (Lex) and Gordon. They enjoyed a happy childhood growing up on Grande Allée in the English area of Quebec City. In 1911 Robert Harcourt Smith purchased Dufferin House in Tadoussac, Quebec as a summer home, from Henry Dale of Poughkeepsie, N.Y. After being ceded to all three boys, Guy bought out his brothers’ stake in the house, and Dufferin remained in the family for four consecutive generations. Like his brothers before him, Guy was educated at Bishop’s College School in Lennoxville, Quebec, and the Royal Military College in Kingston, Ontario, from which he graduated in 1929. Guy also attended McGill University for Economics from 1929 to 1930. After his time at McGill University, Guy entered the Department of Trade and Commerce as a Junior Trade Commissioner in 1930. “Iso” was born in 1908, in Quebec City to Henry Edward Price and Helen Muriel Gilmour. Her siblings included Helen Florence (1902), Enid Muriel (1904), Millicent Ruth (1906), William Gilmour (1910), James Cuthbert (1912), Sheila Hope (1914), Henry Edward (Ted) Clifford (1916), Llewellyn Evan (1919), and Barbara Joan (1921), all born in Quebec City. During her young life, Iso saw the passing of her younger sister Barbara Joan at the age of three in 1924, her brother Gilmour in 1940 at the age of thirty, and Evan in 1944 at the age of twenty-five. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, the family grew up close in the English section of Quebec City. At the age of twenty-three Isobel travelled alone to Buenos Aires, Argentina, where on April 27, 1932, she married Guy Smith who was stationed in the Canadian Diplomatic Service. They had three children during their marriage: Valliere Ann (1933) and Susan Pamela (1935) in Buenos Aires, and Penelope Joan (1939) in Rye, New York. In 1931 Guy was posted to Buenos Aires as the Assistant Trade Commissioner and then to New York in 1936. Guy was granted a leave of absence from 1940 to 1945 to join the Royal Canadian Artillery in the war effort. During his time of service, Guy was involved in a motorcycle accident that took him out of active service. At the time of his discharge, Guy had earned the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel. Sadly, Iso passed away at the age of thirty-six in 1944, in Ottawa, Ontario. Constance Isobel Smith is buried at the Mount Hermon Cemetery in Quebec City. Jean, Mumsie, Aunt Jean, Grannie was born in Quebec in 1903. Her parents were John and Evelyn McCaig. She had two sisters, Ruth, born in 1908, and Ester, and one brother, William John, born in 1911. The family moved to Edmonton, Alberta in 1911. Jean trained as a stenographer and early in her adult life, she developed a love of travel. During the 1920s and 1930s, she visited Vancouver, Honolulu, San Francisco, Berkeley, South Hampton, and Brazil and settled finally in New York in the early 1940s. She was working as a stenographer in the Canadian Consul General/Trade Commissioner’s office when she met Robert Guy Carington Smith. They were married on December 12, 1945. In 1946, Guy was appointed to Havana, Cuba, to continue his diplomatic and trade service. From there, Guy enjoyed a robust career as a Canadian diplomat travelling to posts in many different countries including Rome, London, Paris, Washington, Tokyo, the West Indies, and finally, back to New York where he was appointed as Consul General for Canada for the states of New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut. For the next twenty years, Jean travelled to, and lived in all ofall these places and became a gracious hostess for Guy as he pursued his diplomatic career. Following his retirement, Guy and Jean moved to Brockville, Ontario where he remained highly involved in both civic and church duties. Always a dedicated subject of the Queen, Poppa faithfully corresponded using only Queen’s head stamps. After career and family, Poppa’s main love was Dufferin House in Tadoussac. Not a summer went by without Poppa spending it in Tadoussac tending the gardens and managing the property. For a while, a main fixture of the house was the old English taxi (“Gertrude”) that Poppa would drive around the streets of Tadoussac heading to church or a run to the local store. It was Tadoussac’s version of Jessica Tandy and Morgan Freeman from Driving Miss Daisy with Jean in the back waving to us all! Jean died in Brockville in 1988 and Guy in 2006, aged ninety-eight, and is buried at the Mount Hermon Cemetery in Quebec City near Jean and Isobel.   Michael McCarter Back to ALL Bios

Son of William and Blanche Price, Coosie and Ray were central to Tadoussac's life in the summer Price, Coosie & Ray (Scott) Son of William and Blanche Price, Coosie and Ray were central to Tadoussac's life in the summer Back to ALL Bios Arthur Clifford (Coosie) Price 1900-1982 & Ethel Murray (Ray) (Scott) 1899-1987 “COUNT THAT DAY LOST WHOSE LOW DESCENDING SUN VIEWS FROM THY HAND NO WORTHY ACTION DONE.” Margaret Olivia Slocum Sage Coosie was the second of six surviving children of Amelia Blanche Smith and William Price. His siblings were: John Herbert (Jack), Charles Edward, Willa (Glassco), Richard Harcourt (Dick) and Jean (Trenier-Michel). Ray was the second of four born to James Archibald Scott and Ethel Breakey. Her siblings were Harold, who was killed in World War I, John (Jack) and Mary (Warrington). Coosie and Ray knew each other growing up - Coosie in Quebec City and Ray in Breakeyville. He attended Bishop’s College School and school in England. In 1924 he graduated from the Royal Military College of Canada and began his apprenticeship with Price Brothers. A fine athlete, he was on the RMC hockey team and won awards in other sports. In his final year, he was one of four Company Sergeant Majors. Devoted to his father, he was with him the day he died in a landslide in Kenogami. By chance, he had, at that fateful moment, been sent to the mill to pick up mill plans. His father’s death would change the course of his life as well as that of the entire Price family and the Price Brothers Pulp and Paper Company. Thanks to many things, including a charmed life growing up in Breakeyville, Ray enjoyed more than her share of style and hosting skills. She also spoke French, a rarity amongst anglophones then living in Quebec. In 1926 Coosie married Ray in the Presbyterian Church in Breakeyville. They could not be married in the Anglican Cathedral because Ray was a Presbyterian. Their first home was in Kenogami where their son Harold was born, then Quebec City where Tony, Scott and Willa (Lal) were born. In 1933 Coosie, now bankrupt, left Price Brothers and moved the family to Ottawa where he worked for the Eddy Company until he was asked, in 1939, to come back to Price Brothers as Vice President, Head of Sales. He became President in 1948, later Chairman and retired in 1964. In 1949 Laval University honoured him with a Doctor of Laws Degree for leading the fundraising for University City. When his great friend Mathew Ralph Kane died leaving him much of his estate, he set up the Mathew Ralph Kane Foundation. Though the foundation is now part of the Citadel foundation, donations continue to focus on the Quebec and Saguenay/Lac St-Jean regions where Matt Kane and his family lived. Coosie’s mother died in 1947 leaving Fletcher Cottage to her two daughters. They sold it to their cousin Harky Powell. Harky later sold it to Bill Glassco (a son of Willa). The Pilot House was left to the four boys. They drew straws and Charlie won. After moving to Victoria B.C., Charlie sold the Pilot House to Coosie who by then had built Maison Nicolas (1948). A few years later Coosie transferred the Pilot House to his son Harold. All sales were ‘token’ – happy to keep the houses in the family. Coosie and Ray shared a love of entertaining. They included all ages (Coosie, like his father, had a special affection for children) at the fishing cottages of Anse St Jean, Sagard and Lake Metis, excursions on Jamboree III and IV, cocktails on the deck of Maison Nicolas, and much more. Coosie’s day in Tadoussac often began with a round of golf with his cousin Harky Powel. When the Hotel stopped managing the Golf Course, Coosie put together arrangements to insure its continuation. He had great affection and admiration for the local families and could often be seen chatting with the regulars gathered on the bench in Pierre Cid’s. Among his many pre- and post-retirement activities were salmon fishing (by all accounts, a renowned fly fisherman like his father), golf, boating, photography (award-winning), writing, oil painting and mushroom hunting. Ray, a passionate gardener, coaxed flowers and vegetables out of small beds in the granite on which Maison Nicolas sits. Though she started life a stranger to the kitchen, she became a fine cook and was ahead of her time with her insistence on the freshest of everything – not easy in Tadoussac in those days. Her management of the galley on Jamboree IV was nothing short of heroic. She entertained visitors aboard who showed up in ports from Quebec City to Anticosti Island and Tadoussac to Chicoutimi and graciously accommodated a captain known for ‘casting off’ regardless of the weather forecast. In their retirement years, they spent winters in Sonoma California with their daughter and family, spring and fall in Brockville and, as always, summers in Tadoussac. They shared a great love with family and friends throughout their fifty-six years together.   Lal Mundell Back to ALL Bios

Grandson of the original Willlis Russell, this Willis had a tragically short life Russell, Willis Robert Grandson of the original Willlis Russell, this Willis had a tragically short life Back to ALL Bios Willis Robert Russell 1887-1907 Willis Robert Russell was the son of William Edward Russell and Fanny Eliza Pope. He was the brother of Florence Louisa “Nonie” Russell and Mabel Emily Russell. We don’t know anything else about Willis Robert other than that he died in Quebec at age twenty from tuberculosis. Photo Mabel Emily Russell Scott, Florence Louisa Maude "Nonie" Russell Stevenson, Leslie Alan Russell (baby), Willis Robert Russell (seated), Fanny Eliza Pope Russell, Frederick Willis Hornsby Russell ~1900 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 More Stories "Zeb," he cried. "Zeb, come on up top. Bring your bucket. make it quick." In Case of Fire A Short Story by Lewis Evans (Published in The Standard, October 5th, 1946 - $60.00!) ILLUSTRATED BY MENENDEZ The old hand and the novice found hostility turned to friendship in a battle with death THE windward edge of the fire was below them now, a line that straggled across twenty miles of forest and ate its way in little salients doggedly westwards against the draught. Downwind, ahead of the aircraft, all was confusion for countless square miles—white smoke, and gray and brown, air-borne ashes, and occasionally the peach-glow of flame dimly reflected on the driving smoke. Don Ross, late of the RCAF, held the F-24 on its course, passing over the centre of the vast burning area where thousands of cords of Northern Quebec pulpwood were going up in smoke instead of fulfilling their destiny of providing Canadian and American papers with newsprint. With him in the cabin bronzed, graying Zeb Stearn sat with map on knee, pencilling in the present area of the fire for his report back to the Canadian Forestry Service and the Long Lake, Wolf Lake and River Beyond Pulp and Paper Company, which owned these limits. Old Zeb Stearn concentrated on the job and said nothing. He had been saying just that ever since they had taken off from the North Shore that morning. The northward border of the forest fire seemed to follow the curves of River Beyond, and Don Ross swung the aircraft in that direction. As they approached the river they could see that the fire had already jumped it in several places. Zeb Stearn noted them on his map. Suddenly Don peered at the river beyond the eastern edge of the fire, set the plane on a glide towards it, and then banked on a curve. He pointed, and Stearn followed his finger. A herd of caribou was fording the river to gain the safer north bank. Don turned to smile at Stearn, but the old fellow did not evince interest by even so much as a grunt. He was again working on the map. Don felt rather foolish, as though he had excitedly pointed out the Rhine to a man who had already made many operational tours. THE F-24 was now over the advancing eastern edge, of the fire, and the air was rough. Now and then the thermals rising from the hot earth bounced the plane uncomfortably upwards, and the cabin filled with the raw smell of smoke, making its occupants cough—the first sound Stearn had made so far, Don thought wryly. He started a slow climb to get above the smoke, and suddenly the engine sputtered, livened up again, and quit cold. Don worked at his controls, but nothing happened, and a great appreciation of the multiple engined aircraft he had known overseas was born in him in a flash. He shot a glance at Stearn. The older man’s face betrayed no emotion, but he was peering out at the landscape below — already looking for a spot for a forced landing, Don knew; and Don followed suit. Behind him was River Beyond, but like most northern rivers it was shallow, sown with rocks and seamed with sand and gravel bars—a landing there meant two shattered floats at the very least. To the south, beyond the path of the fire, was Wolf Lake, a perfect landing place, but with a cross wind and his present altitude he didn’t think he could make it. Downwind from the fire was the nearest water—he picked it out between waves of smoke—a tiny lake, almost round, possible for a landing, too small for a take-off. Don tried desperately to make up his mind—take a long chance on Wolf Lake, and maybe not make it and come down in the fire area, or land on this little pond and probably stay there, right in the path of the fire. Stearn grabbed his arm. "Wolf Lake,” he shouted. Don swung the gliding plane towards it, and as soon as he had done so he knew— knew for certain—they couldn’t make it. He shook his head and swung again, losing altitude rapidly. The little round lake appeared and disappeared through the smoke as though it were winking at him. "Okay, honey; here I come,” he murmured, and circled to come at it upwind. The tall spruce round it forced him to glide flatter than he wished, but he almost brushed their tops as he crossed them. The other side of the lake seemed to rush at him, a solid phalanx of dark spruces, but the pontoons took the water with a clumsy splash, the F-24 rocked forward as if she were going to stick her nose down, rocked back, and bucked gently into the matted bushes fringing the shore. “Well,” said Don, “here we are.” “And here we stay till we fry,” commented Stearn. “Why didn’t you try for Wolf Lake, where we could have fixed the engine and had room to take off?” “I knew I couldn’t make it,” said Ross. “It wouldn’t have been any fun putting down in the bush—and the fire.” “It was a chance,” said Stearn. “This is certainty. The fire will be here by tonight.” “We have plenty of water,” said Ross. “We can keep ourselves and the aircraft wet.” ZEB STEARN snorted. “Ever been close to a fire of this size?” he demanded. “Yes,” snapped Ross. “Mannheim.” “You weren’t as close to that as you will be to this, my boy. You try keeping the plane wet, and yourself wet, and breathing at the same time. Take my advice and drown quietly. It’s the more comfortable death.” “Oh, go jump in the lake,” said Don curtly as he opened the door. “I’m going to. I want to find what's wrong with this motor.” He dropped onto a pontoon. “Why?” demanded Stearn. “Even if you fix it you can't get out of here. “I'd feel a lot better if the engine could go, though.” “What're you going to do? Move it on top and take off straight up like a helicopter? We'll get to heaven soon enough without all that trouble.” “Aw, pipe down, and come and help me get this cowling off.” Stearn's reply was to settle back and light his pipe. For ten minutes Ross worked at the engine. The acrid smoke filtering through the bush and bellying out across the lake kept him coughing. Several times he turned the motor over without getting even a kick. At last he opened the cabin door. “Come on and have a crack at this thing,” he pleaded. “The smoke out here tastes much better than that ‘tabac canadien’ you’re inhaling, anyway.” “Fix the thing yourself. You're the pilot,” grunted Stearn. “Oh, come on. You know this engine much better than I do.” “How should I know anything about it?” Stearn's voice was heavy with sarcasm. "I'm too old to know about things like that.” The older man spoke with force, as though he were getting a weight off his chest. Ross stood looking at him for a moment. “Look, Zeb,” he said at length. “Let's have it. What's your gripe?” Stearn's eyes drilled him. “I'm too old – that's what they tell me. For years I fly this bush and never have any trouble—not like this, anyway—” he gestured at the tiny lake. “Then the war's over and they tell me that I’m too old, that young fellows like you must have my job, that I'm on the shelf. On the skids, more like,” he added bitterly. “Who says so?” demanded Ross. “When I got the orders to cover this fire,” said Stearn, “they gave me to understand very plainly that you were the pilot, and I was to leave the flying to you. I was to go just because I knew the country, because I have experience.” THERE was a silence. Don had only come to the base a week ago, but already he had heard the story that Zeb Stearn had learned his flying in World War I, had come to the bush in 1919, and long ago had been forced to reckon his air time in months instead of hours. He felt sorry for the old fellow, and admired his pride and his record. He felt that what he said next—and how he said it—was desperately important. “Well, you may be too old, and you may not—I haven’t seen you fly. But I’ll tell you two things: first, I’ve seen plenty of pilots who were too old at twenty-one; second, I’m darn glad that you’re along.” “Thanks,” said Zeb Stearn dryly. "It’s nice to be wanted on what looks like a fatal journey.” Ross grinned at him. “Come on and play with the engine.” Zeb Stearn climbed out of the cabin, a little stiffly. “Why do you want to fix it?” he demanded. “It’s just work for nothing.” “Feel a lot better when it’s in working order,” said Don, and Stearn snorted. “We can move it to the far side of the lake, keep it wet with buckets, and maybe save it.” Stearn turned on him almost savagely. “You talk a lot of hot air,” he shouted. “Save it for what? A curiosity for the caribou?” He ended up coughing. Ross gestured towards the yellow and black fuselage and the big CF and three more letters on the wing. “That’s the best mark there is for anyone looking for us,” he said shortly. That shot went home, for Zeb Stearn nodded and turned towards the engine. “Air intakes clogged up, I’ll bet,” he said. “Those ashes, maybe.” Inside ten minutes he proved himself right, and the engine exploded into life. Don Ross plunged waist deep into the water and weeds and brush of the lake edge and heaved on a pontoon. Slowly he worked the aircraft round and shoved out from shore. Live sparks were falling round them as they taxied to the down-wind edge of the pond, and when the motor was cut they heard for the first time the actual sound of the fire to the west, a faint menacing roaring that rode on the wind. Zeb Stearn listened to it for a few minutes and shook his head. “There'll be a hot time in the old town tonight” he quoted. “Put on all the clothes you have, get well soaked in the lake, and have a wet rag to tie over your face.” Don nodded. There were a canvas bucket and a galvanized iron one in the plane, and he was tying a length of rope to the handle of each. He got a blanket from a packsack in the cabin, wet it, and draped it over the nose of the aircraft. He climbed onto the wing top and sent a few preliminary buckets full splashing over wing, fuselage and tail, killing several hot sparks. The exertion made him pant a little, and his coughing became steady from then on. IN THE last of the afternoon light he saw a couple of porcupines and a skunk pass along the shore near by, all very intent on their business, which was travel. The faster moving animals and the larger ones must have cleared out long ago, he thought. Smoke snuffed out the last of the daylight, and the fire became visible, like a nearer after-glow of the sunset, silhouetting the tall timber on the west bank of the pond. Right opposite him, across the water, the trees seemed more widely spaced, and Don could see an inferno of flame roaring towards him. Now and then an evergreen ahead of the fire would flare with the roar of a rocket as its branches caught, and then the blackened trunk would be surrounded and hidden by flames. Don had a sudden qualm—the gas in the tank. Perhaps they should have tried to drain it off somewhere, but it was too late for that now. He went on lowering the bucket, dragging it up, sloshing the water on the aircraft. Below him he could hear old Zeb wheezing and coughing as he stumbled waist-deep from side to side underneath the plane, dashing water up at the fuselage and tail assembly. Now and then Don's clothing steamed out and began to feel hot, and he had to climb down and dunk himself in the water. He fought against the temptation to stay in its delightful coolness — each time the climb back seemed tougher, dragging his sodden clothes, and each time the plane was drier and hotter as the first bucketful dashed over it. The hot blast of the wind seared his throat and was painful in the lungs, and coughing was agony that never ceased. His thoughts became disjointed and he knew it and could do nothing to marshal them. In case of fire break glass . . . for use in case of fire . . . those funny axes like tomahawks — if he had one he could chop up the plane and save it from being burnt. Nuts — that was all wrong. Ice — that would be swell, a great big block of it on top the plane, melting and running down all round. Heat, hot as hell, hot air . . . “You talk a lot of hot air." Zeb had shouted . . . hot air bouncing the aircraft upwards — up — hey! wait a minute! Don slithered down into the water and ducked his head under. Hot air — thermals — there must be a lift from all this heat — quite some lift. In the red glare he measured the distance across the water — not enough, of course, but that place where the trees were more widely spaced — even as he looked the branches of the spruces flanking that gap went up with a roar and a fountain of sparks. “With those branches gone and the heat,” he thought, “there’s a chance.” “Zeb,” he croaked. “Zeb, come on up on top. Bring your bucket. Make it quick. He clambered up again, wincing as the heat blasted through the cloth muffling his face. Zeb dragged himself up, and Don told him. “We could hold her while we rev. her up,” he added, “and get a fast start.” Zeb Stearn manipulated his bucket in silence, and squinted at the far bank of the pond. “I don’t like the frying pan,” he said at last. “I'll take a crack at the fire with you." Don left him to sluice her down, and dragged a mooring rope from the cabin. He wrestled it into a sort of bridle on the rear struts of the undercarriage, stumbled ashore with the end, and took a turn round a tree. Already sparks had started fires on this side of the water, he noted. HE GOT up on top again at last, his mind snatching at the problems to be solved. “Go on down, Zeb. Get yourself cooled off, and then start her up. When she’s ripe race her a couple of times and I’ll come down.” Stearn literally fell into the water and Don could hear his coughs bubbling through the wetted mask. Get the blanket off the nose, chuck it in the lake . . . up with a bucket, slosh it on, up with a bucket — the branches seem burned out of that gap . . . the trunks are burning now . . . up with another . . . which pocket's my knife in? . . . got to get it . . . He felt the aircraft heave as Zeb got aboard again, and then the engine started. The slipstream blasted the heat at him and dashed the water away in spray. He couldn’t wait for Zeb to signal. He plunged down, got his head into the cabin door, groped for and found a packsack to wedge it open a bit against the slipstream. “You take her up,” he yelled at Stearn. “No,” shouted Zeb, “You take her — better chance . .” “You gotta take her,” Don yelled. “I’ve got to cut the rope. You couldn’t climb back in — Zeb Stearn nodded. He knew he was too old for that. “Give her the gun,” yelled Don. He had knife in hand now, and crouched on the pontoon, one hand gripping the door jamb, the other holding the blade on the quivering rod-like rope. The engine roared, the aircraft strained, and water squeezed from the taut rope. Don slashed and the plane leapt forward. Water and spray snatched, at his feet, hot air punched and tore at him. Inch by inch, straining and groaning, he fought his way into the doorway. Head and shoulders in, he felt the aircraft lift steeply. He panted and prayed. Zeb Stearn sat like a statue. There were flashes of fire and blackouts of smoke and then, suddenly, he gasped air that was fresh. With a last struggle he got his legs in, kicked the pack out, and the door slammed shut. He lay half on the floor, half on the seat for a minute. Zeb was coughing again, he noted, coughing continually, and he was heavy on the controls. You could feel it. “Take over,” the old man wheezed. “Can’t take it, I guess . . .” They changed places with the supreme care and slow effort of drunken men, and Zeb slumped in his seat. Don Ross settled his course by the stars and shivered. The cold was seeping through his wet clothes, blessed cold. Not good for the old man, though, he thought. “Get out of your clothes, Zeb,” he said. “Get a blanket or something.” Stearn moved slowly and said nothing. He seemed to be trying to stifle his coughing. Don suddenly realized that he was broken by the knowledge that he was too old — too old to climb into a moving plane, yes, but far worse than that — too old to fly it after that tough afternoon. Don eased the plane gently off course, steering a wide arc under the stars. “You sure lifted us out of that frying pan, Zeb,” he said. “Nice piece of judgment. I was glad to be out of that job.” ZEB STEARN said nothing, but went on fumbling with the blanket and coughing sporadically. Don tried again. “Check my course, will you, Zeb?” he asked. “I'm not sure of myself.” Zeb glanced at the sky, and gestured Ross back onto his former bearing. “Thanks,” said Don. “I'm a bit shaky on direction in these parts. You navigate, huh?” Zeb Stearn slowly straightened in his seat and cocked an eye at the sky. “Okay, I'll navigate,” he said. “Steady as you are.” There was a pause, and then Zeb added, “Don't you worry, Don. I'll get us home.” The End Note: 22 years after he wrote this story Dad was interested to find this short article in the Montreal Star, (Sept. 28, 1968) which tells of a similar, if less successful, situation. Team seek to salvage vintage plane from lake Kapuskasing Ontario, Sept. 28 — A federal team will go into a remote lake in this area next week to salvage an ancient seaplane that may be the last of its type in the world. The Curtiss HS-2L has been sitting in the silt in about five feet of water since 1925 or 1927, when the vintage “flying boat” made a crash landing on the lake. Air museums all over North America have sought one of the twin-engined H-boats, used as submarine hunters during the First World War, then as bush planes, but the one on the lake bottom is the world’s only confirmed find. R. W. Bradford, curator of the aviation and space division of the National Museum of Science and Technology, described it in Ottawa today as “a real find.” A team from his division will salvage the plane for the museum. The work may take a year. The HS-2L’s last flight was a colorful combination of ingenuity and farce but not tragedy. Bush Pilot Duke Schiller was forced down by engine failure on the tiny lake or so the story goes. The engine was repaired but to take off from the short lake, Schiller had the seaplane tied to a tree while he revved it up to full throttle. A woodsman was supposed to chop the rope at the appropriate time. The woodsman chopped but the rope was only partially severed. The fearless lumberjack then gave the rope a shake and it broke, hauling him into the lake as the seaplane burst away. Maybe it was the drag of the lumberjack but the plane didn’t gain quite enough altitude to get over the trees. It brushed them, then gently twisted back into the lake. No one was hurt but the plane was written off as a loss. The Fishermen Published in the Quebec Diocesan Gazette, (November, 1968) By Lewis Evans CARRYING the fishing rod, Joe left home at dawn for two reasons: he wanted to be a hero, and he couldn't stand another day of listening to his little brother Johnny whining. He really couldn't blame Johnny for whining, because Johnny was desperately hungry, and not old enough to understand why, or tough enough to be brave about it. Joe was both, because he was seven years old. But he was desperately hungry too, and had been ever since his father had had the accident at the mill, and was still too sick to work. Joe wasn't sure just how he could be a hero, but he figured if he could be the breadwinner even for one day his father would be pleased, and perhaps Johnny would stop whining for a while. The last time his father had gone fishing, on a holiday a week before his accident, he had taken Joe with him, and they had caught nine fat perch. Well, his father had done the actual catching, but Joe had helped by finding some of the worms for bait. As Joe ran down the valley path he had visions of coming home as proudly as his father, with nine perch dangling from a hooked twig. When he came to the place where the stream had undercut the valley side in flood-time, and had caused a small landslide, he stopped and put down the rod and started digging into the soft earth with his fingers. There was a worm - but he was too slow, and got only half of it. Those things could really move. There was another, and this time he was quicker, it took him about half an hour to get a dozen, and he shivered when he felt them wriggling in his pocket. He picked up the rod, and ran on down the valley, which flattened and widened out into grasslands as he neared the shore of the lake. The sun was higher now, and it was going to be hot. Where the stream flowed into the lake and the fishermen’s boats were drawn up it was too shallow for fishing from the shore, but a couple of hundred yards to his right there was a steep bank, and the water there was deeper closer to shore, and shaded at this hour by the height of the bank. Joe scrambled to the very edge of the bank and peered down. The lake water was very calm, and he could see the stones and pebbles dim and wavering on the bottom. He unwound the line from the rod, and impaled a wriggling worm on the hook. There was no barb on the hook, and Joe was afraid the worm would wriggle off, but that was a chance he had to take. He dropped the hook into the lake, and watched it waver down till it was on the bottom. He twisted the rod over and over so that it wound up the line a little and the hook hung about a foot above the pebbles. Then Joe began to learn how hard it was to be a hero. Nothing happened. The sun climbed higher, and it was getting hot. He tried to concentrate on the line where it passed through the surface, watching for any tremor that might be the sign of a bite. He felt a little dizzy, lying there staring down, and his eyes didn't focus very well. He pulled up now and again to check the worm, and twice found it had wriggled off and he had to put on a new one. He began to feel that nothing would ever happen, and he again raised the rod to check the worm. This time something did happen - the line went taut, and there was weight and a wriggle on the end. He scrambled to his feet and raised the tip. The rod bent a little, and there was a flash and then a splash on the surface. Joe heaved back and the perch soared over his head onto the grass behind him. He dropped the rod and fell on the perch, which had come off the hook, finally got hold of it, and banged its head on a stone, bruising his fingers. Triumphant, he laid the perch - it was a very small one - in a shady spot, and baited up. Where there had been one surely there were more. Sure enough, hardly had his hook broken the surface when he felt a tug. He jerked up and thrilled to the pull of the line. He swung the rod up violently, and it cracked and the tip sagged. He dropped it and snatched at the line, pulling hand over hand, and another perch came flipping to him over the edge of the bank. Two! But the rod - it was finished, it wasn't much of a rod really, and his father could make another when he was better, but how could he, Joe, catch more perch? Two little ones wouldn't mean much at home, and without a rod he couldn't get the line far enough out from the bank. He unwound the line from the broken rod, wondering how else he could be a hero. Putting it in his pocket he felt the remaining worms, and thought of throwing them into the water. That would be nice for other perch, but not for the worms. Instead, he dropped them to fend for themselves in the shady spot, and picked up the two perch. They were so small he didn't bother with a twig to carry them, but stuck them in his pocket where the worms had been. He was aching with hunger and discouraged. How could he get something more than two little perch to take home? Suddenly he put his head back and sniffed. A gentle breeze was blowing down the hillside now, and the odour it carried was like an answer to his question. Someone at the little farm had been baking. Perhaps . . . Joe started up the hill, not knowing what he would do, but drawn irresistibly by the smell. There was the squat little farmhouse, and there, off to one side, was the hump of a clay bake-oven. Joe paused in the last cluster of bushes before the open ground around the farmhouse. There was the farmer's wife, laying her baking in a row to cool on a wooden bench in the shade thrown by the house. Joe stared, and his hand crept to find the size of the perch in his pocket. He could hear Johnny's whining, and see his father lying hopelessly on his mattress. The farmer's wife wiped her hand on her apron, took a look at the sky, and went into the house. A moment later she reappeared with a basket of linen, and went round to the back, out of sight. Joe moved forward, and then broke into a tip-toe run. he reached the bench, and snatched up as much bread as he could carry, ramming it under his arm, and darted back to the bushes, he looked back, panting. There was no movement. Crouching, he started away to his right, back towards the valley that led homewards. Keeping among bushes and trees wherever he could, he stumbled along, sweating. He felt the heat of the bread through his shirt, and the smell of it was almost unbearable. Ahead of him was the crest, and beyond was the valley, wide and grassy near its mouth. He reached the crest and stopped dead. The valley was full of people. Joe sank behind a bush and stared, he had never seen so many people in one place in all his life. He had never imagined that there were that many people in the world. What could they be doing there? For a moment the awful thought flashed in his head that they were all waiting for him, to catch him and punish him for stealing the bread. But they weren’t looking at him. They were all in groups of different sizes, some standing, some sitting, some moving about from one group to another, and all, it seemed, talking at once. What in the world could they be talking about? Joe straightened up and moved closer. He had never been more curious. Closer and closer till he was almost up to the nearest group. Why were they there? Suddenly a big strong man, just an ordinary fellow, a fisherman perhaps, turned and looked straight at Joe, and his eyes fell on the bread. He started towards Joe. Joe dropped the bread and turned to run, but in a couple of long strides the man had him by the arm, and swung him to a stop. “Here, my lad,” said the man, “not so fast. You have nothing to fear.” Joe looked up at him trembling. The man did not look angry. He was smiling down at Joe. “Where are you off to with all that bread?” he asked. "I . . . I don't know,” said Joe, and in his confusion he really didn't. “Well,” said the man. “I'll tell you what. How about letting me have the bread? I'll find some way of paying you back for it.” “But I need it,” cried Joe. “That's all right,” said the man. “I'll see you get some more. But right now you just let me have it, will you?” And with that the man stooped, and swept up the bread, took Joe by the arm again, and led him into the midst of the nearest group of people, and up to a tall gentleman in the centre. “What have you there, Andrew?” asked the tall gentleman. “There's a lad with five barley loaves,” answered the man called Andrew, “he is willing to help us.” Some strange impulse sent Joe's hand to his pocket. “I have a couple of fish too,” he said almost proudly, pulling them out. The tall gentleman smiled, and all the people around laughed when they saw the two small fishes. * * * “I think, Joe,” said his father after the men had gone, and Joe had told his story, “you'd better take some of those twelve baskets to the farmer's wife, it may be only fragments of bread and fish, but there is more than you and I and Johnny can use, and, as the gentleman said, it should not be wasted.” The End NOTE: I remember when Dad wrote this story, back in 1968. At chapel that morning at Bishop's College School where he taught, the lesson for the day had been from the Gospel of John, Chapter 6, Verses 1 - 14, The Feeding of the Five Thousand. For some reason Dad took an interest in the actor in the story with the smallest role, and of the smallest size. Dad went back to the staff room and spent every spare minute he had that day writing feverishly and telling his colleagues to go away! I have included the text of the gospel reading below: John 6:1-14 Revised Standard Version (RSV) Feeding the Five Thousand 6 After this Jesus went to the other side of the Sea of Galilee, which is the Sea of Tibe′ri-as. 2 And a multitude followed him, because they saw the signs which he did on those who were diseased. 3 Jesus went up on the mountain, and there sat down with his disciples. 4 Now the Passover, the feast of the Jews, was at hand. 5 Lifting up his eyes, then, and seeing that a multitude was coming to him, Jesus said to Philip, “How are we to buy bread, so that these people may eat?” 6 This he said to test him, for he himself knew what he would do. 7 Philip answered him, “Two hundred denarii[a] would not buy enough bread for each of them to get a little.” 8 One of his disciples, Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother, said to him, 9 “There is a lad here who has five barley loaves and two fish; but what are they among so many?” 10 Jesus said, “Make the people sit down.” Now there was much grass in the place; so the men sat down, in number about five thousand. 11 Jesus then took the loaves, and when he had given thanks, he distributed them to those who were seated; so also the fish, as much as they wanted. 12 And when they had eaten their fill, he told his disciples, “Gather up the fragments left over, that nothing may be lost.” 13 So they gathered them up and filled twelve baskets with fragments from the five barley loaves, left by those who had eaten.14 When the people saw the sign which he had done, they said, “This is indeed the prophet who is to come into the world!” Winged Victory PUBLISHED IN THE MONTREAL STANDARD November 1, 1947 ($50.00!) He'd been waiting since last Hallowe'en to show them he wasn't afraid anymore By Lewis Evans ILLUSTRATED BY JEFF CHAPLEAU Pete cowered, and a sob of fear shook him “WELL, I made them for you,” said the old lady, and watched the light of excitement and anticipation flare up in Gordie’s seven-year-old eyes. He bounced off the chair by the kitchen table. “Oh Granny, did you? Can I see them? Can I see them right now?” “They’re upstairs. You’d better come up and try them on, in case they don’t fit.” Gordie shot out of the kitchen into the hall and up the long flight of stairs. The little old lady could hear his restless feet drumming their impatience on the floor above, but, spry as she was, she did hot hurry. “Wings, indeed!” she murmured as she started up the stairs. “What an imagination they have at that age!” When Granny Tompkins reached the top of the stairs she opened a large linen closet, and from the bottom shelf drew out a complicated black object. As she unfolded it it resolved itself into a pair of wings, and, between them, a sort of hood with pointed ears and nose, and slits for eyeholes. Gordie’s round eyes could not take it all in at once. They darted here and there, and his feet danced under him. He recognized parts of two huge old-fashioned black umbrellas — or was it one of them cut in half ? -— that made the framework of the wings and gave them their bat-like trailing edges. He remembered those umbrellas among countless other treasures he had seen in Granny’s marvellous attic. But over the umbrellas was some shiny black stuff, sewn on as though it were feathers, stuff that shook and rustled as the wings were moved, and the same material covered the head and shoulders. “Oh Granny!” cried Gordie. “They’re wonderful! Pete won’t have anything as good as this for his costume. Why — why he may even be scared of me in this!” Gordie became so enthralled at the prospect that his Granny had to shake the wings to recall his attention. “Here,” she said. “You’d better try them on. Why are you so worried about Peter Martin?” "OH,” said Gordie, as he struggled to get his arms into the tight sleeves that ran across the forward edge of the wings, “he thinks he’s pretty good. At the Hallowe’en Party last year he was dressed like a skeleton, and he kept jumping out and scaring people, and—” Gordie paused. “And?” “And he jumped out and scared me when I was passing the cemetery on the way home. I was dressed as a ghost and I tried to run and I fell down and I cried.” “And he’s never let you forget it all year, I suppose?” said Granny. She knew Peter Martin and had some idea of the constant battle Gordie had with him at school. Peter was a year older, but in the same class, and at everything but school-work he was just a little bit better and stronger and quicker than Gordie. “There,” said Granny. “They fit pretty well. How do you like them?” Gordie contorted himself trying to take in the general effect. “Can I go down to the hall and look in the big mirror?” he asked. “Of course,” said Granny. Gordie bounced to the head of the stairs. He was already savouring a triumph over Pete. “Whee! I’m a bat!” he cried, and he spread his wings and jumped down two steps at once. Then he emitted a shrill squeak of surprise and fear, which sounded quite bat-like, for his feet barely grazed the second step down, and he found himself floating swiftly and silently down into the gloom of the big hall below. Granny Tompkins gave a gasp of amazement and started down the stairs at a speed that did not look much like that of a seventy-year-old, but before she was half way down Gordie caught a wing-tip in the hatstand and crashed to the floor. “Gosh, Granny, they work!” he gasped, struggling to his feet. “Are you hurt, boy?” demanded the old lady. “Gee, Granny, you sure are smart. Betcha Pete’s granny can’t make a pair that really work.” Granny Tompkins took Gordie by the shoulders and shook him. “Listen to me,” she said. “They’re not supposed to work. It’s — it’s an accident. You must promise me never to try to fly with them again. You might break your neck, and then what would your mother say? Will you promise?” “Aw, Granny—” began the boy. “Promise!” demanded the old lady. “Or I’ll take them back and break them up.” “I promise,” said Gordie reluctantly, starting at his macabre reflection in the hall mirror. “Very well. Now get along with you to school. I’ll put these away so no one will know, and you can pick them up here on your way to the party.” She watched Gordie go down the path and turn left along the road past the cemetery and the church towards the school. He had not even thanked her, but Granny Tompkins was wise enough to realize that that was a compliment to the magnitude of the thing she had done for him. He would have thanked her for a doughnut, all right. The joyance in his gait was enough thanks for her. Note: This article is the one Dad had pulled from the paper to inspire his reluctant students: The Montreal Gazette. ADVENTUROUS WOMAN MAKES PAIR Of WINGS Virginiatown, Ont., Oct. 2/46. CP. An adventurous Virginiatown housewife has invented a pair of wings which she uses to jump from buildings 20 to 25 feet high. Mrs. Phil Golden, the mother of two children, began working on her wings two years ago after disecting birds in an attempt to learn how they fly. She made the wings of parachute silk and bits of plastic. They look like a mass of gigantic feather-like pockets built onto even larger feathers. These feathers or air pockets flush the air back through the larger feathers on to a plastic back. In so doing, a vacuum is formed underneath the outer feathers. The vacuum together with a movable outer attachment at the wing tips allows for the possibility of propulsion by means of earnest wrist action. Mrs. Golden said a weak heart so far has prevented her from more stringently testing her wings. Up until now she has been jumping from platforms at least 20 to 25 feet in height. Most of her "flying" has been done at night because she is shy of publicity. She started folding up the costume, but then she paused, and stood in the hall staring thoughtfully at the wings. “YAH! Gordie Allen — think you’re smart, eh? We all know you’re Gordie Allen.” The words ripped through Gordie’s disguise, and inside the black hood his face turned scarlet with disappointment and rage. Peter Martin was supposed to be a black cat, and he had a long black tail made of stuffed cotton stockings. Picking it up in one hand he swung it at the bat, and Gordie felt the umbrella ribs buckle under the blow. Powerless to retaliate, he turned to walk away, and another blow curled itself round his ankles and he fell to his knees. “Weren’t you scared to come?” went on the hateful voice. “Bet you went all the way round by Main Street so you wouldn’t pass the graveyard. “Bet you’re scared to pass it going home. Remember last year?” “I am not scared,” exploded Gordie, forgetting his incognito. “I’ll go past it any old time,” and he moved away, followed by Pete’s unbelieving laughter. There were witches on broomsticks and owls and ghosts and all sorts of spooky creatures in the big assembly hall, and the decorations were all orange and black, and there was even orange coloured stuff to drink and black candies that tasted much as they looked, and were probably designed to induce dreams of “things that go bump in the night.” GORDIE forgot all about Pete Martin for a while and began to enjoy himself again, but all of a sudden his stomach felt empty and his heart dropped into the void. Pete was nowhere to be seen! Gordie knew what that meant. The party was nearly over. Pete had gone to hide in the cemetery. When Gordie went past he would jump out and scare him. If Gordie detoured it he would broadcast the fact that he was afraid to pass it. Miserable, Gordie lingered in the coatroom as the children left. Finally, last of them all, he started homeward, his battered costume clutched under his arm. As he passed the church his steps slowed, and his ears and eyes strained to catch some forewarning of Pete’s onslaught. The tombstones loomed grey in the darkness to his right, and his footsteps grated loudly on the road. Suddenly, far ahead of him, there was a piercing shriek. He stopped, frozen stiff. Then there came the sound of running footsteps, pounding down the road towards him. He couldn’t move. “Gordie! Gordie!” It was Pete Martin, white-faced and panting. He grabbed Gordie by the arm and cowered behind him. “You should’ve seen it. It flew down out of the sky and landed right beside me . . . it was like a great big black bat with big black wings . . .” GORDIE tried to steady his voice. “Where were you?” he asked. “In the cemetery.” “Yeah — down at the end near the old Tompkins place, where there aren’t so many gravestones. I—I was waiting for you. . . . Come on, Gordie— go round by Main Street with me.” In all his confusion Gordie’s mind was able to realize that this was his great opportunity, if he only had the nerve to use it. “There’s nothing to be scared of in a cemetery,” he said stoutly. “Come on, Peter. I’ll take you past.” He gripped Pete’s arm, which made him feel a little braver himself, and set out. “We’re nearly past,” he whispered to the dragging Pete as the black shape of the Tompkins place loomed against the night sky ahead, and the tombstones on their right thinned out. Pete’s fingers sank into his arm. “Look,” he breathed, and pointed. Silhouetted over the roofline appeared a winged creature, and suddenly it launched itself into space, floating down towards the cemetery. Pete cowered, and a sob of fear shook him. Gordie braced himself. If it was Granny Tompkins practising flying with the wonderful wings she had hit upon, he wasn’t scared of her. If it wasn’t—well, they were nearly past, and the street lamps began in another hundred yards. “Come on,” he said. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.” And he led Pete on. NEXT morning Gordie fell in beside Granny Tompkins as they came out of church. “Enjoy your party?” she demanded. “Sure did,” said Gordie, and told her all, ending in triumph with the victory over Pete. “You sure are a wonderful grandmother,” he added. “I bet not many guys have grannies that can fly.” Granny Tompkins made no rejoinder, and after a short pause he clutched her arm. “It was you, Granny, wasn’t it? It was you who flew?” The old lady hesitated, and then glanced round to make sure no one else could hear them. “Yes,” she said. “It was your Granny, all right. Thought I’d scare that Pete for good and all. But don’t you breathe a word of it, Gordie.” She shot a frightened glance at the long line of respectable neighbours filing out of church. “Just think how folk would talk!” “He’d never go by it again, day or night,” she added to herself, “if I told him the truth.” She had gone to bed with a headache last night — right after supper. THE END Short Story 3300 words DEAD MAN STEERING by Lewis Evans UNPUBLISHED (Dad always said there was no accounting for publishers who couldn't recognize sheer genius when they saw it!) AHEAD in the darkness, a pair of red and green running lights, canted at a sharp angle, told Pete that a sailing vessel was beating up the Sound towards him. He stuck his head down the cabin companionway and called to his wife. “Ann, there's a yacht about a quarter of a mile ahead. Want to have another try at a night photo?” “Sure.” Ann left the supper she was fixing in the galley, grabbed up the necessary equipment, and came out into the cockpit. “Careful going forward,” warned Pete. “There's a fair sea running.” They took most of their photos from the forward deck of the cabin cruiser in order to keep their own wake out of the pictures. Pete had built a sort of sword-fisherman's pulpit just aft of the anchor bitts. “Don't worry about me,” said Ann, climbing round the edge of the bridge deck. “Concentrate on getting me a good angle and distance.” Pete altered course to pass close to the yacht on her leeward side, so that her angle of heel would present her deck to the camera. Experience had taught him that most yachtsmen liked to see all their favourite gadgets in a photo, and most of these were on deck. Pete cut down the speed, and the little cabin cruiser's exhaust made bobbling noises as her stern squatted and lifted in the quartering seas. He hoped that the motion of the boat wasn't too difficult for Ann's aim, and that their speed in passing the yacht wouldn't be too much for Anne's camera. It would have been better to turn and run with the yacht, but it was too late for that. The green starboard light was abeam, and the flashbulb went off. Pete got a momentary impression of a yawl under plain sail smashing along close-hauled, and then the blackness of the night contrasting with the white flesh left him blind. He closed his eyes tight for a moment, and then opened them, and could pick out once more the flashing lights of buoys and the shore lights a mile away. Ann clambered back into the cockpit. “Not bad,” she commented. “I got it at the end of a roll, so I don’t think the camera was moving too much.” She went below and back to her job as cook, and Pete advanced the throttle and steered for their anchorage at Porthaven, twenty minutes away. The worst of this racket, he thought, was that it looked to the outsider as if his wife did all the work. And so she did, as far as the photography went, but he was learning the job fast and had some outstanding pictures to his credit already. And the boat was his responsibility - its maintenance and navigation, and the selling end of the business too. He had become engaged to Ann during the war, when he was in the Navy and she was a photographer for a small town newspaper. He remembered the first date they'd had after he'd been demobilized. He remembered the canned music in the little restaurant, and the cuba libra on the table, and that he had had to drink it with his left hand because his right was gripping Ann's under the tablecloth. He remembered too how desperately they wanted to get married, and how they had got the idea that had made it possible. “Got a break last week,” Ann had told him. “Had to cover a sailing race for my paper - it was for a trophy the paper puts up every year. I was lucky and got a really perfect picture of the winner crossing the line, and now one of those boating magazines wants to buy it for a cover, and the owner of the yacht wants a dozen big prints.” “Yachtsmen love to have pictures of their boats,” Pete had said. “Guess it's because it gives them something to dream over through the winter.” “Yes, and they never can take them themselves, because they’re always aboard the boat at the most photogenic moments,” added Ann, and Pete had got the idea. “Look,” he cried. “We want to get married and have somewhere to live - the only thing I know is boats, the only thing you know is photography - “ “Not the only thing, Pete,” murmured Ann. “Well,” continued Pete after a pause while his eyes answered that one, “we get a boat out of what I saved in the Navy, and live on it, and follow the regattas and races and sell photos of their craft to owners. Why, we could go South in the winter and keep right on with the job.” And so it had worked out. “Sea-Photos, Inc.” was well established, and the thirty foot cabin cruiser Photofoam was beginning to be recognized and welcomed at regattas and yacht clubs. Pete eased the cruiser into the anchorage, put her into the wind and cut her way, and went forward to drop the anchor. After supper the cabin became a darkroom, and the day’s take was developed and printed. Later, when Pete had worked over Lloyd's Yacht Register and other lists, small prints were mailed to owners, with a price list of enlargements. “That flashlight job we took on the way home looks good on the negative,” said Ann. “I'm going to enlarge it right away.” Night photos were an experiment they were trying out - the novelty might be good advertisement. So far their attempts had been disappointing. He bent over the developer tray with Ann. He still got a kick out of watching a picture emerge on the white paper like a ship breaking out of a fog bank. Slowly the photograph materialized - much the same as the split second impression he had got at the moment of the flash. He made out the yacht's name, Mistress Mine , on a ring lifebuoy on the shrouds. Suddenly Ann drew in her breath sharply, plucked the enlargement out of the developer, slid it into the hypo, and pointed. Her finger indicated the only figure visible on the yacht - the helmsman in the cockpit. “Look, Pete, look!” she breathed. Pete bent closer. The man sat with the long tiller tucked under his arm, and his bare head was slumped forward and to one side, presenting his right profile to the camera. Down his cheek ran a dark smear. “That man's dead,” whispered Ann, and her voice shook. “Get a magnifying glass and turn up the light.” Pete took the lens and peered through it. He couldn't be sure, but it certainly looked as if that dark smear started from a round dark spot on the helmsman's temple - a spot that could be a bullet hole. “But Pete, it's impossible - the yacht sailing straight on like that....” “No, it's not. With a yawl close-hauled and well balanced, and the hold he has on the tiller, even if he is dead - that's what would happen. She'll plough straight on till the wind shifts or she piles into something.” Ann sat down suddenly. “But who – what....?” she began. “Look up Mistress Mine in the register,” ordered Pete. “I'm getting the hook up.” “But Pete,” cried Ann, “you can't handle this. Go ashore and phone the police.” “Meanwhile the yawl piles up and the evidence is lost.” He scrambled forward and hove on the ground tackle. In three minutes the Photofoam was at full speed, bucking the chop in the Sound. Ann came to his side at the wheel, the register in her hands and a flashlight to read it by. “'Mistress Mine , yawl, built 1938 by....'” “Skip that,” cut in Pete. “Who's the present owner?” “'Joseph D. Bartram,'” read Ann. “Oh, Pete, I know who he is - he's 'Little Joe' - he's a sort of successful racketeer. The paper I worked for used to have a lot to say about him. He's always mixed up in something shady like gambling and the black market, but he always keeps just out of trouble.” “Just the sort of guy who'd get himself bumped off,” commented Pete. “But who - ?” began Ann and her voice suddenly lowered. “Pete, the murderer might still be aboard.” “Uh-huh,” said her husband. “But why should we stick our necks out? If it's 'Little Joe' he probably got what was coming to him, and I'm not crazy to meet his murderer.” “Listen, Ducky,” said Pete; “our picture is very dramatic, but it might be a picture of a suicide, not a murder. If we find the Mistress Mine as she was in the picture, and no gun in Joe’s hand or on the cockpit floor, we know it was murder. Personally, I think we may find the yawl, but I don’t think we’ll find Joe.” “Why?” “Seems to me the murderer would plan to tip Joe overboard with a weight to keep him down, and leave the yacht drifting, as though he’d been knocked overboard by the boom in the dark. That has been known to happen to men sailing single-handed. No body, no crime - and no Joe. A perfect set-up.” “How does the murderer get away from the yacht himself, though?” asked Ann. “Maybe we'll be in time to find out,” said her husband. “The yawl carries a dinghy, but that would be missed. To make it a perfect crime he would have to be taken off by a pal in another boat, or better still sail the yawl in close to shore and swim. Then no one need know he was there.” There was a pause while Ann thought it over. “Pete,” she said, “if you're right the murderer must have been aboard when we took the photo.” “He must have been somewhere below,” said Pete. “My guess is he hid aboard, waited till Joe sailed her well offshore, and shot him from the darkness of the cabin.” “Well, what about our flash?” demanded Ann. “What would he think of that?” “I don't know. He wouldn’t see much from inside, especially when the portholes on the side near us were heeled 'way down almost to the water. I don't think he could help seeing a bit of a flash wherever he was. He might have thought we'd raked him with a spotlight for a second. I don't think anyone would think of a photoflash.” There was another pause, and again the girl broke it. “You'll be careful. Darling? If we find the yawl, I mean?” “Of course. You're the only wife I've got.” “I don't know why I married such a madman,” sighed Ann. “If there was any truth in what you said when you proposed,” said Peter quickly, “you couldn't resist my good looks and you were dying to get your hands on my money.” Ann let him have a left jab to the ribs and Pete slid an arm round her and sought safety in a clinch. The Photofoam ran down the Sound on long zig-zags. The breeze was moderating and the water calmer. It was after midnight now, and most pleasure craft were snug in anchorages, so Pete was not surprised when the first running lights he picked up turned out to be those of the Mistress Mine . As the cabin cruiser closed the distance between them Pete switched on his spotlight and caught the yawl in its beam. She was hove to, fore reaching a few yards and then luffing and falling off. “There's a man moving about in the cockpit,” he said. “Get your photoflash and give it to me. We'll be friendly and pretend we think it's 'Little Joe' - what's his other name?” “Bartram,” breathed Ann. Pete leaned beyond the side wing of the bridge and hailed. “Mistress Mine , ahoy! Do you need any help?” “Sounds just too romantic,” he heard Ann murmur behind him, and his brain took a split second off to think what a swell girl she was. “What boat's that?” demanded the man on the yawl sharply. “Take us alongside,” Pete told Ann, “and give me that camera.” He slung it round his neck and clambered forward. “Photofoam , of Sea-Photos, Inc.,” he shouted. “We saw you hove to, and thought you might be in trouble. Mr. Bartram, isn't it?" The direct beam of the spotlight was off him now, but Pete could make out the man steadying himself with his left hand on the cockpit coaming. His right was below its edge; Pete could guess what that hand held. “No trouble, thank you,” the man replied, and Pete felt he could almost hear the fellow's brain racing to explain his position. At length the explanation came out. “I am cruising single-handed,” he said, “and I was cold, so I hove to to go and get myself some warmer clothes and a drink.” He paused, and then asked as if he couldn't resist it, “How do you know my name?” “It's our business to know yachts and who owns them,” said Pete. “We take photos of them, you know. Mind if I take one now?” “Portrait of a murderer,” Pete's brain quoted at him. The flash was over and he was blinded again before the man's reply started. In the blackness Pete moved quickly to one side. He was afraid of a shot. “No - I don't mind a bit.” The words came smoothly and slowly, and Pete's impression was that the man on the yawl had everything figured out now. “How many have you aboard?” the voice went on. “Can't see a thing after that flash.” “Two,” replied Pete. “Myself and my wife.” Only a yard or two separated the craft now. “Come aboard and join me in a drink,” the smooth tones continued. “The boats will be okay alongside each other - there’s little wind now. Come along.” The last two words were edged with insistence. “Hell,” thought Pete. “I'm behind the eight ball now. He’s got to have the camera....” His stomach contracted as his mind added, “and he’s got to have us, too. We're too close - he can get us both if we try to scram.” The boats bumped gently. “Play along, play along with him,” Pete’s mind kept telling him. “Maybe you'll get a chance to slug him or something.” He moored the cruiser fore and aft and helped Ann out of the cockpit. She slipped and he caught her to him. “It’s 'Little Joe',” she breathed. Pete's brain reeled. 'Little Joe' was the murderer, not the victim. Who, then, was the corpse? Bartram was awaiting them in the cockpit, his right hand in the huge side pocket of the heavy canvas hunting jacket he wore. He motioned them down the companionway ahead of him. “Whisky, rum, gin?” he asked. “Glad to have someone to drink with. Sit down, won't you?” Pete sat on a transom on one side of the central table, and Ann beside him. Joe moved past the table on its other side towards the door in the bulkhead at the forward end of the cabin. Beyond it was the galley, Pete guessed. “Whisky for me,” said Pete. “Ann?” “The same, thanks,” said Ann. She looked at her husband, and for a second her eyes crossed. Pete felt that his senses were leaving him, and then he got her warning - 'Little Joe' would probably fix those drinks, the two of them would go out like lights, and he would dispose of them and their films as he wished. Bartram was standing in the doorway, his left shoulder towards the cabin. Pete could bet that the gun was out of that right side pocket now and handy to grab. Bartram smoothly small-talked about the delights of night sailing and his sentences were punctuated by the clink of bottles on glasses. They couldn't refuse the drinks - that would just bring the gun out. They must drink, and go out like lights - out like lights - like a flash.... Pete remembered the way the photoflash had blinded him twice already that evening. He unslung the camera from his neck, and leaned over Ann as he put the sling over her head. “Here, Honey,” he said, “why don't you try a snap of this cabin? It's a swell job.” And he added under his breath, “You flash, I switch 'em.” Bartram placed the drinks on th e table, Ann's, Pete's, his own at the end nearer the galley. Ann stood up. “How about a picture, Mr. Bartram?” she smiled. “'The skipper at home' - that sort of thing.” She raised the camera. There was a pause and Pete imagined Bartram thinking, “One more doesn't matter - camera and all will be at the bottom of the Sound in a few minutes.” “Okay,” said 'Little Joe', leaning back against the side of the doorway, glass in left hand and his right in that side pocket again. Pete's heart sank, but Ann came through. “Put the drink down, if you don't mind. They spoil a photoflash - er - reflections, you know.” 'Little Joe' placed the glass on the table. “Ready?” asked Ann. “One, two, three....” Pete knew she was counting for his benefit and on three he shut his eyes. The flash was still perceptible through his eyelids, and he opened them quickly, reached out both hands, and switched his drink and Joe's. Then he looked up to find Joe passing a hand over his eyes and blinking. Pete copied him. “Some flash, eh, Mr. B?” he laughed. “Well, here's cheers.” He picked up his glass and knocked back about half of it. Thank Heaven it was whisky too - had 'Little Joe' decided on something different that gun would be out with his first sip. He was glad to see Ann fussing with the camera, not drinking. “Mud in your eye,” said Bartram, and to Pete it sounded as though, he meant it. The Sound had a muddy bottom. 'Little Joe' drained half his glass, and noticed Ann's preoccupation with her camera. “Drink up, lady,” he invited. He raised his glass to her. “Here's luck.” With that his knees folded and he crashed down across the table. Pete leapt on him to pinion his arms and yelled the one word “Rope” at Ann. Their haste was from fright rather than from necessity, for 'Little Joe' was out cold. In two minutes they had him trussed up, and Pete broke open the gun he had taken from his pocket. “One shell fired,” he commented. “But who at?” “At whom,” corrected Ann automatically. She was crumpled on a transom, white and shaking. Pete raised her head and kissed her. “Stick with me a little longer. Darling,” he said. “Pull yourself together.” He pointed forward. “There's a big sail-locker in the forepeak - that's probably where Joe hid when the other guy sailed the boat out into the Sound. But who was that other guy?" His eyes fell on a club bag on the port side berth. He started pulling out shirts, a toilet case, an opened envelope. “Ann,” he said, “ever heard of anyone called Victor Marsh?” “Sure,” said Ann. “He's an associate of 'Little Joe's'. He was up on a gambling rap last year. Got off with a fine or something, though.” “Listen.” Pete had the letter out of the envelope. “'Dear Vic: In reference to our conversation yesterday, about your borrowing the Mistress Mine next week end, you can pick her up at her moorings in Flounder River any time Saturday afternoon or evening. Have a good cruise, and don't worry about being single-handed - she handles very easily. Drop into the office Monday and tell me all about it. Joe.'" “Exit Vic,” commented Ann. “Don't let me hurry you, but don't you think we'd better scram? We're not close enough to land for Joe to swim ashore, so he must have been waiting for a pal to come and take him off.” Pete sprang into action. He lowered the yawl's sails, left them lying unfurled, and took her in tow. When they were some three miles on their course to Porthaven he caught a glimpse of a speedboat's white bow and red sidelight as she whipped by a mile away. Perhaps she was going to pick up 'Little Joe'.” By five in the chill dawn a sleepy Porthaven policeman was in charge of the yawl Mistress Mine and her passenger, police headquarters had been notified, and detectives were on their way. Once more the Photofoam dropped her hook. Pete yawned and stretched. “Bed, bed, beautiful bed!” he exulted. “Pete I'm going to develop those last two pictures first. If they're good we're famous.” “Aw Ann,” expostulated her husband, “for Pete's sake-” Ann smiled at him. “Okay; I'll come – for Pete's sake.” The End (Short Short Story) 1000 words (Date unknown. Sometime in the late 1970s or 1980s.) (Unpublished) FLASH POINT by Lewis Evans We on the planet Nereus, who have through these many aeons communicated with each other by thought-transmission, find it limiting to try to express ideas in the antiquated medium of language. However, as my report concerns the planet which calls itself ’Earth' (but which we know as The Flasher) it would seem appropriate, and an interesting exercise, to express the report, this time, in an 'Earth' language. I have chosen the language they called English, for it was, perhaps, used by most of the people responsible for the recent incident on their planet, though had the incident been delayed for a few of their years the Russian and Asiatic tongues might well have been by then the sole surviving languages. It is with this incident that my report is mainly concerned. We have, of course, been expecting it for some time, for these things generally run true to pattern, but the thing happened while the attention of most Nereans was centred on the Millenium Peace Celebrations on The Blusher (which in 'Earth' parlance, ironically enough, is called Mars after, of all things, a war god), and I was, by chance, the only close observer on this planet. My attention was first attracted to 'Earth' by my happening to notice the detonation on that planet of two nuclear explosions in short succession, evidence that the inhabitants had developed their intelligence and ability to the point where they had discovered and begun to make use of that type of energy. These first two explosions, which occurred at almost the same spot on the 'Earth's' surface, were shortly followed by others, of different intensity and at varying intervals and widely separated points. Assuming that the inhabitants of various parts of 'Earth's' surface were, as usual, at war with each other, I thought it might be interesting, and useful for our records, to have detailed information about the steps leading up to the inevitable climax of a nuclear competition, and so, through our normal channels, I arranged to obtain this information. I dispatched, therefore, a thought-conveyor of moderate size to 'Earth' from an orbit where it had been cruising until needed. It landed successfully in a good central position, and immediately went into action, receiving significant thought emanations from various parts of 'Earth', and relaying them to our receiving recorders here. The accuracy and delicacy of this thought-conveyor were well attested, by the way, almost as soon as it got there, by the fact that it immediately absorbed and passed on to Nereus the news of its own arrival. I record the actual item here as a quaint insight into 'Earth' lore, though, of course, it is scientifically ridiculous: “Saskatoon, Saskatchewan (an English language place name): Scientists here announced today that a meteorite ('Earth' name for our thought-conveyors) is believed to have fallen in barren lands near the northern borders of the province. An expedition under the leadership of Professor Hegstein is being organized to ascertain the exact locality of its crater and other scientific data.” (Though hardly credible to us, there is a widely accepted belief on 'Earth' that certain large circular declivities on the planet's surface mark the landing places of what they call meteorites. We, of course, know what really created these ancient craters, and the latest ones as well.) As soon as I began to correlate the information which came in from our thought-conveyor, I realized that my first conjecture had been wrong. The widely spread and sporadic detonations of a nuclear nature were merely the proving of scientific products by various inhabitants of 'Earth' who were, apparently, working independently of each other, and against 'Earth' time. It seems that each group felt that the more powerful and more numerous the items of nuclear energy it had, the less likely would any other group be to use its own stock against them. This state of affairs, with each group afraid of provoking the other, and yet equally afraid of falling behind in stock and power of nuclear energy, continued for some 'Earth' years, until I was almost convinced that the moments I devoted to its observation and record were being wasted, since the outcome was a foregone conclusion. However, curiosity as to the exact manner of the actual impulse which would promote the final incident prompted me to persevere in my observation. The primary impulse was one that appears to be second nature to the inhabitants of 'Earth', and one without which they do not seem able to survive for any extended period of their time – war. A trifling dispute between two small groups over the control of a small area of solid surface surrounded by liquid - or it may have been over a small area of liquid surrounded by solid, for the thought-conveyor did not seem to be able to gather the details, or perhaps did not consider them worth gathering - and all inhabitants of the planet ranged themselves in one or other of the two camps. Some desultory campaigning with antiquated weapons ensued, but each side existed in fear of the other initiating the use of nuclear energy. This situation might have continued until I was sure that the subject was not worth my momentary attention, had not the secondary impulse suddenly occurred. A single individual of one of the opposing groups, while controlling an air-borne vehicle on patrol over a large liquid area, feeling, no doubt, weary of the situation in general and of his own activity in particular, yawned uncontrollably. His primitive pressurized garment became disarranged, he made a sudden movement to adjust it, and triggered a nuclear item which his vehicle carried as a precaution against the surprise use of such by the other group. This item was detonated in the water area without damage to any inhabitants of the planet, but the detonation was recorded by both sides. At once each side assumed that the other had initiated a nuclear competition, and threw all its most potent weapons into the action. The result was an interesting - even spectacular - sight, and I was glad that I had not desisted from my observation a few moments earlier. First one and then another area of The Flasher, or 'Earth', was momentarily illuminated by the comparatively brilliant flashes that inspired our name for it. Beautifully patterned cloud formations occasionally obscured the play of light, and the emanations from our thought-conveyor became weak, confused, and distorted. Undoubtedly some of the larger detonations meant that the surface of the planet was again being pitted by large craters, and it amused me to conjecture that perhaps they in their turn would be explained by 'Earth' inhabitants of the future as the landing places of 'meteorites'. Hardly had it begun when all such activity ceased completely. The surface of the Flasher reappeared, unobscured by cloud or vapour, its well known features hardly altered, but with no illumination of any sort in any place. Needless to add, there was no communication whatever from our thought-conveyor, for a thought-conveyor cannot convey thoughts when there are none to convey. Such is my report of the most recent of such incidents on 'Earth'. Since we Nereans have been equipped to observe that planet, our records show that this is the fifth time that life on 'Earth' has destroyed itself, and, if the established pattern is repeated, in several Nerean years (or 'Earth' aeons) infinitesimal and primitive forms of life will gradually develop, and finally attain to the intellectual standard which is the prerequisite to the 'invention' of nuclear energy. Almost immediately, control of this medium will be lost, and it will once more destroy all life on the planet. If I thought that there was any hope that the pattern might be changed when next the inhabitants of The Flasher approached the flash point, I would be willing to take the time to observe the course of events. It would be an interesting study if they learned to live with and by what they have evolved, and it might even result in our having to discontinue the name The Flasher as inappropriate. (Short Short Story) (1000 words, Unpublished. Date unknown.) THE PLOTTER by Lewis Evans A great B-47 of a June-bug droned in through the open window of the class-room and started making bombing runs at the chandelier. Flak in the shape of Johnny Calder's Geometry book whizzed up and the dazed insect crashed on my desk. He was still alive, so I swept him into my pocket for future reference and was hard at work, like everyone else, when the master on duty stuck his head in at the door to see what the disturbance was. I wondered whether this particular bug was fast on his feet. The night before I had won thirty-five cents in the dormitory when my June-bug had been the first to crawl from the centre to the circumference of a circle chalked on the floor. Then I had sat on him by mistake at Prayers that morning, and so had to build up a new racing stable. The blank pages of the exercise book on my desk caught my eye. Old Hawk-eye, the English master, a guy with the most extraordinary ideas, had been teaching us the short short story in class, and we were supposed to have one written for him by next day. A thousand words to write, and I had not even the first glimmerings of a plot. I could remember most of his lesson, though. “Short first paragraph,” he had told us; “jump right into the middle of action at the beginning. Get some dialogue on your first page if you can. And don’t forget that somewhere in the first third of your story there must be a clue to your surprise ending - your 'kick in the tale'.” That was one of Hawk-eye’s little jokes - the same every year, they tell me. He had droned on about development of tension up to a crisis where everything was right for the crooks or the communists, or wrong for the cops or the Yanks or the British, and then the sudden twist. Oh, I could remember all that, but my mind was still as blank as the pages. The only thing I could think of was how I hated evening preparation in springtime, with the windows wide open and the smell of fresh leaves and grass coming in from the playing fields. “Hey, Johnny,” I whispered. “Lend me a cigarette? I’m going out for a smoke.” Johnny looked impressed - smoking is against the law at our school for some ridiculous reason. He found a battered butt in his pocket and chucked it across. I waited till the master - it was Davies, the Science man, and he's a bit vague or I wouldn't have thought of skipping out - went past again in the classroom corridor, and then I whipped over the window-sill. There was an eight foot drop to the ground, but I knew there was an old plank near by that I could lean against the wall to help me back. I had found it near the carpentry shop and brought it over for just such an occasion. I ran across the quadrangle, keeping out of the splashes of light from the windows, and ducked round behind the dark mass of the gym. There I sat down and lighted Johnny's weed and tried to enjoy life, but that blasted story was still on my mind. Perhaps if I started with the crisis I might get somewhere, I thought. Let's see - the good guy has to be in a jam. His plane's on fire and he has left his parachute at home - no, that's too tough; I'd never get him out of that. Well, he's a paratrooper, and on his way down. He realizes that he is going to land in the shark-infested sea, so what does he do? I don't know. Let's make him drift down over a volcano, and just when he thinks he's done for the hot air from the cone sends him up again; kind of hard to persuade old Hawk-eye there wasn't too much accident in that, though.... Oh, the heck with it. The cigarette was down to the last half inch so I stamped it out and started back. Half way across the quadrangle a familiar voice from the school steps said, “Johnson, come here." It was Hawk-eye in person, having a pipe in the fresh air - a good idea too, if I know his pipes. I started thinking fast and getting nowhere, except closer to him. “What are you doing outside the building during preparation?” he demanded. “Well, sir,” I began, and then I had an idea, a poor thing, but mine own, as someone said before I did. “Well, sir, Mr. Davies told us all to bring a specimen of insect life to his biology class in the morning.” “Yes?” “Well, sir, that's why I'm out here. I suddenly remembered I didn't have one.” “And have you succeeded in getting your - er - specimen, Johnson?” “Yes, sir,” I said, and produced the June-bug from my pocket. “Get back to your class-room,” ordered Hawk- eye. It was too dark to see the expression on his face, but his voice sounded amused. I don't think he liked Davies much. That meant I had to go back by the corridor instead of through the window, but Davies was quelling a noise in another class-room, and I made it without being seen. “Okay?” asked Johnny Galder. “Hawk-eye pinched me in the quad,” I whispered, “but I talked my way past him. I'm all right if he doesn't check with Davies.” As I turned to the blank pages of my English exercise book the bell went for the end of preparation. The next morning in English period old Hawk- eye made us read out our stories. The first two were passable, in a comic-book sort of way; lots of screaming jets and chattering guns spitting death, and stuff like that. Johnny was the third boy he asked, and he had summarized a de Maupassant story in the hopes that Hawk-eye didn't know any French. He did, though, and an afternoon dropped out of Johnny's life forever. Then it was my turn. “I'm sorry, sir,” I apologized, “but I couldn't think of a plot.” Hawk-eye chose to be sarcastic. “You couldn't have written a story with a June-bug as the hidden clue, I suppose?” he suggested in honeyed tones. And as he measured out my doom I thought, “My gosh! I could have, at that!” The End Dad did submit this story for publication but it was soundly rejected with the following note. I include it because Dad thought the note was very funny and he always kept it clipped to the top of his manuscript. NEXT PAGE