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

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

PREVIOUS War Lest we forget! Many of our family friends/relatives/ancestors served in uniform. If you have more photos please send them! Ne l'oublions pas! Beaucoup de nos amis / parents / ancêtres de la famille ont servi en uniforme. Si vous avez plus de photos, envoyez-les! NEXT PAGE William Rhodes lived in England, and served in the War of 1812 for the British in Quebec William's brother Godfrey lived in England and served in the Crimean war in the 1850's. His son William Rhodes was posted by the British Army to Quebec in the 1840's and from then on he lived in Quebec and Tadoussac. Dean Lewis Evans, my grandfather. Trevor Evans, son of Lewis Evans Isobel (Billy) Morewood, Frank's sister Frank Morewood, my other grandfather Carrie Rhodes, my grandmother, who married Frank Morewood after the war Frank Morewood's Application for Discharge, has a lot of information. Lived in Rosemont, Pennsylvania, near Philadelphia Born in Quebec, July 8, 1886 Appointed 2nd Lt F.A. June 1, 1918 Assigned to Field Artillery and a Balloon Company Stationed in South Carolina, New Jersey and Massachusetts Engagement "Meuse Argonne" from Wikipedia: The Meuse–Argonne offensive was a major part of the final Allied offensive of World War I that stretched along the entire Western Front . It was fought from September 26, 1918, until the Armistice of November 11, 1918 , a total of 47 days. The Meuse–Argonne offensive was the largest in United States military history , involving 1.2 million American soldiers . It is the second deadliest battle in American history , resulting in over 350,000 casualties. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meuse–Argonne_offensive Served overseas from June 18/18 until July 5/19 Discharged July 24/19, 0 per cent disabled on discharge Enl Serv means Enlisted Service Bobby Morewood, brother Nan (Rhodes) and Lennox Williams had 4 children. Jim married Evelyn in 1916, Mary who married Jack Wallace, Gertrude who married Ron Alexander, and Sydney who was probably too young to go overseas. Jim Williams and his wife Evelyn Meredith in Europe More about him on this site https://www.tidesoftadoussac.com/james-w-williams General Ronald Alexander, brother-in-law of Jim Williams, with his daughter Jean Alexander (Aylan-Parker) Sydney Williams at Brynhyfryd, with Dorothy Rhodes (Evans), Rachel Webb (Stairs), his sister Gertrude Alexander, and in front cousin Lily Rhodes Jack Wallace and a friend in 1915 below, WW1 warships in Tadoussac Bay Three related couples who were married in the late 1930's. Jean Alexander married John Aylan-Parker (below). Her brother Jim Alexander married Barbara Hampson (right) and Jim's buddy Ted Price married Mary Hampson. READ the letter lower on this page that mentions all these people. George Stairs at right on the Noroua in Tadoussac Bay, with his brother Colin and Lewis Evans Trevor Evans Lionel O'Neill Bob and Nan (Wallace) Leggat This is a very interesting letter written in 1939 by Lily Rhodes to her first cousin Carrie (Rhodes) Morewood. With our Tadoussac connections it's amazing that 80+ years later almost all the names are people whose descendants are still in contact. Of course the three newlywed couples were heading to Europe where WW2 had already begun. Lilybell Rhodes (50) grew up at Spencer Grange, a large house that still exists in Quebec City, and at this time probably lived at Bagatelle (below), although the address has been changed from the one on the letter. Carrie Morewood (58) (my grandmother) is living in Pennsylvania, with her husband Frank and their two children Betty (my mother) and Bill. https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Villa_Bagatelle << Frances and Lilybell Rhodes The first paragraph might refer to the estate of Lily (Jamison) Rhodes, who is the only relative who died in 1939, she was wife of Godfrey who died in 1932. Frankie (5) is Frank Morewood, who currently lives in Oakville and has done extensive research on the Rhodes and Morewood families. I don't have a photo of him at 5, but below is Margaret and Bobby Morewood, his parents, flanking Sidney Williams, and Frank and Harry. Above, the Claridge on Grande Allee in Quebec City. left Mary and Ted at her sister Barbara Hampson's wedding Lily has been to the wedding of her cousin Jean Alexander to John Aylan-Parker (left), and much of the letter is about who she saw there. Amazing how many people have descendants who know each other today in Tadoussac. Quick review: Ted Price married Mary Hampson, sister of Barbara Hampson, who married Ted's friend Jim Alexander, whose sister Jean Alexander married John Aylan-Parker. Got it? right Jim, Ronald and Jean Alexander, in the famous white boat! below Many of the people mentioned in the letter Gertrude (Williams) Alexander, Lilybell Rhodes who wrote the letter, Jean and John Aylan-Parker, Joan Williams (Ballantyne), Nan (Wallace) Leggat, Mary (Williams) Wallace, Bishop Lennox Williams above Jean Alexander and Barbara Hampson, who married her brother Jim Alexander. << Need the newspaper clipping and photos! Jack Wallace, Jim and Jean Alexander, Nan Wallace (Leggat), Michael Wallace, Joan, Susan and Jim Williams right, Frank Morewood building the house on property he doesn't own yet! In fact, the house was built in 1936, and this letter is written 3 years later in 1939! below, Frank and Carrie Morewood, to whom the letter was written (my grandparents!) left, Barbara Hampson and Jim Alexander below, back row, Billy Morewood, Ainslie (hiding), Billy Morewood, Jean Alexander and Betty Morewood front row not sure the boys, probably Jim Williams is the young one, and Joan and Susan Williams right May Dawson, below Emily Evans and her daughter-in-law Betty (Morewood) Evans 235 St. Louis Road Québec November 24, 1939 Dear Carrie Thank you for yours of the 19th. Something has cashed the check for $308 from mother's account so I imagine the trust co. in Philadelphia must have the money. As you say, trust cos. are very slow. Frankie, I believe has to have his tonsils or adenoids out (I don't know which). He has been laid up with a cold for 3 weeks and when it clears up they plan to operate. I was at Margaret's yesterday at the tea she had for Nany's guest Marjorie Ross. Frankie looked a bit white faced, but was dressed and played about quite happily. Teddy Price and Mary Hampson were married the same day as Jean and now have a small apartment near them in the Claridge. Just for your own ears - I found Jean looking frightfully thin, and nervous. Poor child I think all these changes of plans have been very hard on her. To have gotten her little apartment in Toronto all furnished and then have had to give it up was a better blow. Just how long it is before John sails, goodness knows. Some say anytime but Jean hopes he'll be here a month or perhaps longer. She still seems very excitable. I wish she could have started married life under more peaceful auspices. Here are the newspaper pictures of them. Will you please send them onto Frances at Kent Place School, Sumit, and ask her to return them to me. Johnie looks younger than your Billy! Gertrude had on a teal blue short dress and smart hat of same shade and a little corsage of pink roses. She never looked better - so bright and cheerful. She has an awfully nice roomy house in a very good residential section. They seemed very comfortably situated. Jim looked thinner and rather serious. He was expecting Barbara on the evening train. She had been maid of honor at Mary's wedding that day. She was to spend the weekend with the Alexanders. The gray blue airman's uniform looked very well on Jim. I heard many people remark "What a fine son the Brigadier has." Jackie (Wallace) does not look too well. He told me he was having trouble with his hip joint. Some bone has grown too large for the socket and causes pain when he exercises. So he is going slow as to hockey and football, but by resting it hopes to get in some skiing after Christmas. Mary (Williams Wallace) makes light of the trouble so don't mention it. Michael (Wallace) has had a hernia operation in Montréal, but is getting on well. Big Jack and Mary (Wallace) both looked very well. Mary was in black. Uncle Lenny (Williams) made a nice wedding speech. Wilma Price Glassco, Miss (May) Dawson, Mrs. (Emily) Evans, and Mrs. (Johnathan) Dwight were the Tad people present. Mrs. Dwight came up and spoke to me. I would not have known her. She looks so much older (as do we all know doubt). She looked very handsome, but stern and said "you know Frank Morewood has built a house on a bit of my land that he does not yet own". Her sister (I think) Mrs. Adam was with her. Mary sent out the boys Jim and Jack for a good hot dinner before the wedding - a wise move or she felt with so much champagne to be drunk in healths. But I did not see anyone the worse and most people only had one glass. Elspeth took Mary, Jack, Ronald, Gertrude and me to dine at the Royal York Hotel in the evening. Great fun, lots of officers in uniform about and pretty girls in evening clothes. The wedding presents were lovely, clocks, lamps, silver trays, Little tables of various kinds, cigarette boxes etc etc. Gert and Ronald gave her a diamond ring that had belong to Aunt Nan. Gert said her trousseau cost $300 and she did not think any other present was necessary but gave the ring so she would have something from her parents. I have not seen her in Québec as yet - but she is lunching with the family in turn this week and next begins the more formal parties. Mrs. Harry Price is giving the brides a tea as is Mrs. Lex Smith. Arthur Smith sent Jean a lovely sterling silver rose bowl, the only thing of the kind she received. John's aunt Mrs. Fraser is a large formidable looking lady of 60 odd who was once a great beauty. I think it gives her great satisfaction to have her nephew married to the Bishops granddaughter. She was dressed in blue sapphire velvet - long and very imposing. She was a Lennoxville girl. John's mother died and his father is also dead. His only brother has been lately injured in a football game and is recovering in a hospital. We are thinking of a new car too. Our 1929 model is really passé. I often listen to Mr. Swing on the radio but mother finds too much radio tiring. John ( Aylan-Parker) has a car which brings him in and out of Valcartier daily. They have just a large bedroom and bath at the Claridge. I am glad Betty Morewood (Evans) is getting off to college next year. It will give her something definite to do for a few years never mind what her life is later gives mental discipline. Frank (Morewood) must have his work cut out for him with that ships rigging. I am glad he is got at it. It should be an interesting piece of work. Love from Lily 1941 in England, Jim & Barbara, Mary & Ted with babies. The babies are Michael Alexander and Greville Price! NEXT PAGE

The prodigal Price brother(!) who settled in Chile rather than join the Price Brothers Lumber Company Price, Henry Ferrier The prodigal Price brother(!) who settled in Chile rather than join the Price Brothers Lumber Company Back to ALL Bios Henry Ferrier Price 1833-1898 Henry Price was born at Wolfesfield in Sillery, Quebec, the Price family estate acquired by his father, William Price, who had arrived from Wales in 1810. William had begun wood-cutting operations on the Saguenay River that would later become Price Brothers. Henry was the fourth son of William and Jane Stewart, who was descended from Scottish supporters of Bonnie Prince Charlie. They had fourteen children. Henry’s brothers David Edward, Evan John and William Evan took over the company from their father, but Henry had other plans. Henry decided to travel to California to join the Gold Rush. He boarded a ship and sailed south around Cape Horn. Upon reaching Chile in 1850 on the voyage north he visited with his Uncle Richard who had settled there. His uncle persuaded him to abandon his plans and he stayed in Chile where he worked in his uncle’s business of cattle and horses. In 1866 Henry married Florence Stoker Rogerson who was born in Ireland in 1841. They settled on their “Estancia” in Talcahuano, Chile where all seven of their children were born: William, Henry Edward, Teresa Jane (Aunt Terry), Arthur John, Florence Mary (Aunt Flo Bradshaw), Frederick Courtnay, and Lewellyn. Henry’s brothers back home in Canada had remained bachelors and urged him to come home so that they could keep the lumber business in the family. He sent his oldest sons, William and Henry Edward, north in 1879 to finish their high school education and apprentice in the business. In 1884 Henry Ferrier and the rest of his family moved to Canada and settled in Toronto. The children were sent to different schools as they matured. Henry Edward went to Trinity College in Port Hope as did Arthur. Fred and Lewellyn were sent to Ridley College in St Catherine’s. William, the eldest, was sent to BCS in Lennoxville, Quebec for a year before going to school in England. He would later take over building Price Brothers and was knighted (Sir William) for his work with the Canadian Army during World War I. In Tadoussac, William rebuilt Fletcher Cottage for his family and a house nearby called Casa Nueva which later became the Harry Price House. Henry Ferrier died in Toronto in 1898 and is buried in Mt. Pleasant Cemetery. His wife, Florence, died in 1921 and is buried beside him. Greville Price Back to ALL Bios

Été à Tadoussac Summer 1920-1940 NEXT PAGE PREVIOUS Mnay photos that I have collected from the summer community in Tadoussac are from the 1920's and 1930's. This was a time when many of our parents and grandparents were young and were lucky enough to enjoy summers in Tadoussac. They did many of the same activities that we do today, but they certainly wore different clothes! I hope it will give you a feel for what it was like to grow up in the summer community in those days. You may recognize some of the people! This is LONG, take your time! Seven Pages Please let me know what you think, or if you have corrections, or additions! Beaucoup de photos que je l'ai recueillies auprès de la communauté d'été à Tadoussac sont des années 1920 et 1930. Ce fut un temps où beaucoup de nos parents et grands-parents étaient jeunes et ont eu la chance de profiter des étés à Tadoussac. Ils ont fait un grand nombre des mêmes activités que nous faisons aujourd'hui, mais ils portaient des vêtements différents! Je l'espère, il vous donnera une idée de ce qu'elle était de grandir dans la communauté d'été dans ces jours. Vous pouvez reconnaître certaines des personnes! Cela est longue, prenez votre temps! 7 chapitres S'il vous plaît laissez-moi savoir ce que vous pensez, ou si vous avez des corrections ou des ajouts! First Page Première Page The Village of Tadoussac La ville de Tadoussac Travel by Car?? Voyage en Voiture?? Travel by Steamer Voyage par Steamer Second Page Deuxième Page The Summer Cottages Les Chalets d'été Third Page Troisième Page Picnics and the Beaches Pique-nique et les Plages Fourth Page Quatrième Page Meeting the Boat Rencontrer le Bateau Fifth Page Cinquième Page Saguenay Trips Des excursions sur le Saguenay Sixth Page Sixième Page Sports Sports Seventh Page Septième Page (More) Faces of Tadoussac (Plus) Visages de Tadoussac PREVIOUS NEXT PAGE

PREVIOUS EVANS Arrival in Canada NEXT PAGE This page is about My great-grandfather Francis Evans 1801-1858, who came to Canada from Ireland with his wife Maria Lewis in 1842. They had 12 children, and lived near Simcoe in southern Ontario. Their 11th child was Thomas Frye Lewis Evans 1846-1919, my grandfather, who spent many summers in Tadoussac (see next page). According two other people's research, we are descended from a Welsh Prince of 1000 years ago, and two brothers who moved from Wales to Ireland in the 1400's. Francis Evans 1803-1858 The Evans family house in Ireland The Evans family house is in the middle of Ireland! From the Dictionary of Canadian Biography (slightly abridged) EVANS, FRANCIS, Church of England clergyman and educator; b. 1 Jan. 1801 in Lough Park, an estate near Castlepollard, County Westmeath (Republic of Ireland), son of Francis Evans; m. c. 1825 Maria Sophia Lewis, and they had six sons and six daughters; d. September 1858 in County Westmeath, and was buried in Castlepollard. Francis Evans, a graduate of Trinity College, Dublin, arrived in Lower Canada in 1824, intent on entering the Anglican ministry. His decision to emigrate may have been influenced by the presence in the Canadas of his uncle, Thomas Evans , a soldier. Shortly after arriving he went back to Europe to marry, and then returned to the colony. On 11 Nov. 1826 he became a deacon, was appointed curate two days later to the Reverend Robert Quirk Short at Trois-Rivières, and was ordained priest on 27 Oct. 1827 by Bishop Charles James Stewart . Evans did well at Trois-Rivières, reporting in 1827 that his congregation had grown by one-third since his arrival even though there had been no increase in population. Nevertheless, he accepted a missionary posting to Upper Canada sponsored by the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel. In October 1828 he took his young, growing family to Norfolk County where St John’s, near the village of Simcoe in Woodhouse Township, became his home church. He was the first Anglican clergyman to settle in Woodhouse, even though his parishioners, largely United Empire Loyalists and their descendants, had built the church some years before in anticipation of a permanent appointment. Like most Anglican clerics, Evans concentrated his efforts by ministering regularly to a few settled charges. He attempted, however, to preach occasionally in “every place that it is in my power to visit.” He found his labours well received. In 1830 he reflected, “It is particularly gratifying to perceive that the prejudices against our Establishment which were very prevalent are disappearing most rapidly.” None the less, the privileged position of the Church of England ensured it and its servants a host of enemies. William Lyon Mackenzie , for one, twice publicly portrayed Evans as unfeeling and uncaring, characteristics allegedly typical of Anglican clergymen. In 1836 Evans found himself in the public eye again when Lieutenant Governor Sir John Colborne responded to the critics of the church’s claims to establishment by endowing 44 Anglican rectories, one of which went to Evans. The rectories, and Anglican pretensions generally, certainly helped bring about the Upper Canadian rebellion, which affected Evans dramatically. In December 1837 Charles Duncombe and Eliakim Malcolm, responding to rumours that rebels had taken Toronto, mustered some 400 to 500 insurgents southwest of Brantford. On the night of 12 December Evans led a little loyalist band bearing messages through rebel lines to Brantford. The next day the rector bravely went to the insurgent camp “to expostulate,” as a fellow priest recorded, “with the deluded schismatics.” Evans brought news of the governor’s proclamation promising pardon for those returning peacefully home. For his efforts, he was detained. Fortunately, release came soon when the rebels dispersed upon discovering that Mackenzie had been defeated in Toronto and that forces, led by Allan Napier MacNab , were marching against them. But Evans could not escape controversy. In the trials that followed he testified against several prominent insurrectionists, thereby earning further ill will. On 2 Oct. 1838 a mob occupied the Congregational church in Burford Township to prevent his preaching there. Eventually the clamour faded, and Evans settled back into an all too penurious routine. As was the custom with other clerics he had to supplement his meagre income by teaching. He first operated a boarding-school and began teaching at the district grammar school in Simcoe when it opened in 1839. As a teacher he took special interest in aspiring clergymen. He also laboured earnestly at his regular pastoral duties, establishing some 14 congregations in the surrounding district. He toiled for the Upper Canada Bible Society and spread the temperance message. At the time of his death he was an archdeacon and rural dean of Norfolk County. These toils exhausted Evans. In 1855 Bishop John Strachan , who thought him “an active and zealous Missionary,” warned him that a continuance of his “usual labours” would be too much for him, and he was right. In a futile effort to recover his health Evans holidayed in Ireland in 1858 but died there between 5 and 7 September after spending only a week with a brother and sister. In Canada he left a monument of solid if unspectacular work and a large, well-educated family. Colin Frederick Read AND let's not forget his wife, Maria Sophia Lewis, who probably had a lot to do with the large, well-educated and successful family! She was b orn in Martock, Somerset, England on 1804 to Thomas Fry Lewis and Charlotte Georgina Forter. She passed away on 29 Jul 1881 in (interestingly) Québec City. St. John's Church, Woodhouse, just south of Simcoe Ontario #6 "Another son b 1845" is Thomas Frye Lewis Evans, the Dean who ended up in Tadoussac!>> This document at left was created in the 1950's, and has lots of information about the Evans and Lewis families and descendants. Several excerpts have been shown above if you don't want to read the whole thing! (The document at left is 38 pages and it's a pdf so you can read it - I made page 35!) NEXT PAGE

Tadoussac Main Street - Rue Principale Pierre Cid Cote Mayer Villeneuve Bourgouin Bouliane Cafe Blue Manior Tadoussac Galouine Boheme Tadoussac Main Street - Rue Principale Then and Now - Hier et Aujourd'hui With Biographies of Pierre Cid and Johnny Maher by Daniel Delisle PhD! 1850-1880 There are very few photos of the main street of Tadoussac prior to the construction of the Église de la Sainte-Croix in the late 1880's. These photos show the Hudson's Bay Post on the front lawn of the Hotel Tadoussac, so they are prior to 1870 when the Post was demolished. One of the first buildings on the Main Street is the building that is presently La Galouïne Restaurant. Il existe très peu de photos de la rue principale de Tadoussac avant la construction de l'église de la Sainte-Croix à la fin des années 1880. Ces photos montrent le poste de la Baie d'Hudson sur la pelouse de l'hôtel Tadoussac. Elles datent donc d'avant 1870, lorsque le poste a été démoli. L'un des premiers bâtiments de la rue principale est celui qui abrite actuellement le restaurant La Galouïne. The Hotel Tadoussac was built in 1864, and around the same time five houses were built on the Main Street further east, today they are Cote, Chez Ida, Hovington, Stairs and Beattie. These five houses were built by the Prices, perhaps as residences for the Hotel staff. It must have been a busy time for construction in Tadoussac! There is a gap between the last two houses, that was filled in much later. L'Hôtel Tadoussac a été construit en 1864, et à peu près à la même époque cinq maisons ont été construites sur la rue Main plus à l'est, il s'agit aujourd'hui de Côté, Chez Ida, Hovington, Stairs et Beattie. Ces cinq maisons furent construites par les Price, peut-être comme résidences pour le personnel de l'Hôtel. Cela a dû être une période chargée pour la construction à Tadoussac ! Il existe un écart entre les deux dernières maisons, qui a été comblé bien plus tard. Just up the street overlooking the bay are the first three summer residences, built by Powel, Russell and Rhodes in the early 1860's. Juste au bout de la rue surplombant la baie se trouvent les trois premières résidences d'été, construites par Powel, Russell et Rhodes au début des années 1860. 1880-1910 Église de la Sainte-Croix in the late 1880's. The first photos (maybe) just before it was built. The panorama with the steamer is early 1890's, after the church was built but before the hotel was expanded in 1900. There's a big gap just east of "Cid's" so the Bourgouin house has not yet been built. Interesting building by the bridge with a gallery on the roof! Église de la Sainte-Croix à la fin des années 1880. Les premières photos (peut-être) juste avant sa construction. Le panorama avec le bateau à vapeur date du début des années 1890, après la construction de l'église mais avant l'agrandissement de l'hôtel en 1900. Il y a une grande brèche juste à l'est du "Cid's", donc la maison Bourgouin n'est pas encore construite. Bâtiment intéressant près du pont avec une galerie sur le toit ! Circa 1905 This photo is from my family album of 1901. According to the biography of Johnny Maher (below) he built a house next door to the Cid Store, and it burned in 1902. He then built the larger building in the next photo. The "Cid's" building has no sign (maybe a small one over the door?), although the store started about this time. Cette photo est tirée de mon album de famille de 1901. D'après la biographie de Johnny Maher (ci-dessous), il a construit une maison à côté du magasin Cid, et elle a brûlé en 1902. Il a ensuite construit le plus grand bâtiment de la photo suivante. Le bâtiment du "Cid's" n'a aucune enseigne (peut-être une petite au-dessus de la porte ?), bien que le magasin ait ouvert ses portes à cette époque. Circa 1910, the Maher building has expanded, and the "Manoir Tadoussac" has a new roof with a tower! (Or maybe it's a new building?) Vers 1910, le bâtiment Maher s'agrandit et le "Manoir Tadoussac" a un nouveau toit avec une tour ! (Ou peut-être que c'est un nouveau bâtiment ?) Closer up the store signs are visible, "J N Maher Épicièr" and "Pierre Cid Marchand General". Biographies of both Maher and Cid below! Plus près, les enseignes du magasin sont visibles, "J N Maher Épicièr" et "Pierre Cid Marchand Général". Biographies de Maher et de Cid ci-dessous ! Tadoussac Main Street - Rue Principale Then and Now - Hier et Aujourd'hui 1909 < > 2023 This diagram from 1909 helps to explain the location of the buildings, the Cote's Grocery store is on the land that used to have 2 buildings, Bourgouin & Dumont Ce schéma de 1909 permet d'expliquer l'emplacement des bâtiments, l'Épicerie Côté est sur le terrain qui abritait autrefois 2 bâtiments, Bourgouin & Dumont Maher Cid's Bourgouin Dumont Galouine Manoir Tad Cafe Bleu Bouliane Construit 1900's 1860's 1900's 1880's 1850's 1860's 1860's 1860's Jusq'ua 1970's Now 1923 1923 Maintenant 1970's? Now 1970's? Johnny Maher Johnny Maher, Merchant in Tadoussac Daniel Delisle PhD At the end of the 19th early 20th century, the village of Tadoussac had a few merchants, among others, the oldest according to our research, which was founded around 1864, François Bourgoing's business. There was also that of Alfred Vaillancourt, the store of Pierre Cid and the store of Johnny N. Maher. Johnny Maher, marchand à Tadoussac Daniel Delisle PhD À la fin 19e début 20e siècle, le village de Tadoussac comptait quelques marchands, entre autres, le plus ancien selon nos recherches, qui aurait été fondé vers 1864, le commerce de François Bourgoing. Il y avait aussi celui d’Alfred Vaillancourt, le magasin de Pierre Cid et le magasin de Johnny N. Maher. Alfred Vaillancourt's store was located on rue du bord de l'eau, in the building that currently houses the Micro-brasserie de Tadoussac. The other three businesses were located on Main Street, then Elgin Street, now Rue des Pioneers, close to each other. The current Intermarché-banner Hovington grocery store succeeded the Côté grocery store as well as the business of François Bourgoing and later his son Ernest. The current premises of Café Bohème housed the general store of Pierre Cid and on the land where the Nima store is now located was the Johnny N. Maher store. Joseph (aka Johnny or Johnney) Napoleon Maher Family Johnny Maher, born in 1863 and died in 1939, is the son of Joseph "Jerry" Maher and Clarisse Gagné. On August 10, 1886, Johnny married Évelyne (Marie Auveline) Hovington (1865-), daughter of Édouard Hovington and Flavine Pedneault. The couple gave birth to a son, Édouard Thomas (1891-1980) who in 1918 married Emma Vauthier (1898-1966) daughter of Édouard Vauthier and Annie-Bridget-Ann Sullivan of St-Godefroi de Bonaventure in Gaspésie. Following the death of his wife Évelyne Hovington, Johnny married again in 1898, Laure Boulianne daughter of Joseph Boulianne and Alfeda Levesque. Two children were born of the union, a daughter, Marie-Paule (1904-1997) married to Ernest Lizotte, and a son, Robert (1900-1970) husband of Florette Harvey (1918-1985). Professional activities Johnny Maher is said to have owned a house on Pointe-de-l'Islet. Forced to demolish it due to its expropriation, he erected a new one near the Côté bridge, next to Pierre Cid's future store. At the end of the 1800s, Johnny Maher experienced some financial difficulties, notably bankruptcy in 1891. The height of misfortune, a few years later, in 1902, a fire completely destroyed the house which housed his store. His home was uninsured. Yet as a shrewd trader he knew the high financial risks and the obligation to be careful. Both at the first marriage, following bankruptcy, and at the second, the Maher spouses ensure a union in "separation of property" in order to protect the family patrimony. In the 1911 census, Johnny Maher declared himself of Scottish origin, "merchant" as his main occupation and "fisherman" as a secondary occupation. As for his Scottish origin, according to genealogists, the Maher ancestors are of Irish origin and not Scottish. For her part, Mrs. Gaby Villeneuve claims that he is of Germanic origin. His business is mainly oriented towards dry food and sewing accessories. Depending on the season, it offers its customers fishing products, in particular fresh salmon. When the municipality of the Village of Tadoussac was created, Johnny Maher was appointed alderman of the first municipal council under the leadership of Mayor Eugène Caron. Later, he will sit on the Peace Commission for the district of Tadoussac. The descendants Johnny's eldest son, Thomas Maher, will achieve some fame in the Quebec City region and beyond. After graduating from the classical course at the Séminaire de Chicoutimi in 1913, he continued his studies in agriculture in Chicoutimi and obtained his diploma in 1914. After his training at Laval University, he became a forest engineer in 1917. Subsequently, a professor at the university Laval where he has had a great career. Involved in the Quebec City region, he is recognized as a “great developer” of Lac Saint-Joseph. He will also be associated with the Deschênes de Tadoussac family when the Compagnie de navigation Charlevoix-Saguenay was created in 1918, of which he was vice-president. The company will obtain a government subsidy to provide a link between the Carlevoix region and the North Shore. Thomas married Emma Vauthier on January 3, 1918, the couple had 3 children. He was a professor at the Faculty of Sciences at Laval University from 1933 to 1958 and professor emeritus in 1958. He was vice-president of the Canadian Broadcasting Commission (now the Société Radio-Canada), “he is president of the National Gallery in Ottawa since 1959; president of the Association of Forest Engineers of the Province of Quebec(1928-30 and 1952-54); founder and administrator of the weekly Le Journal (1929-31); President of the Diocesan Council for Oeuvres de Charité du Québec (1950). He is the author of books on Quebec forests "Our forests in decadence", "Pays de Cocagne ou terre de Caën" and of the novel "Fascination ”, as well as numerous newspaper articles and conferences on the theme of the forest. In 1921 he created with his son Robert and a man named Henri Grenier of Quebec, a logging company, Thomas Maher inc. This company was dissolved in 1932. He died in Quebec on March 7, 1980. Robert Maher, Johnny's second son, and his wife Florette Harvey will have two sons, one of whom they will baptize Thomas, with the same first name as his uncle, a second Marc and a daughter Hélène. Thomas became a teacher at École Saint-Joseph de Tadoussac, principal and later principal of the Commission scolaire de Tadoussac. He will also be Commodore of the Tadoussac marina and the xth mayor of the village of Tadoussac and president of the Corporation de développement tourisme de Tadoussac. He will also be a director on the Board of Directors of the Société des traversiers du Québec. Hélène will marry Doctor Claude Bossé and Marc will marry Michèle Plouffe. Johnny's only daughter was Marie-Paule, married to Ernest Lizotte. Involved in the local section of the Red Cross, she was secretary in 1941. After her marriage, she moved to Chicoutimi where she died in 1997. Johnny Maher died in Tadoussac on June 25, 1937 at the age of 74 years and six months. At the ancestral cemetery of Tadoussac we find his burial place on the east side, at the cemetery entrance leading to the old presbytery. On the epitaph, only his children born from his union with Laure Boulianne are listed. No trace of Thomas in Tadoussac cemetery, the remains of the latter and his wife rest in Belmont cemetery in Quebec. Daniel also added an extensive bibliography, if interested please contact me! Le commerce d’Alfred Vaillancourt était situé sur la rue du bord de l’eau, dans l’édifice qui abrite actuellement la Micro-brasserie de Tadoussac. Les trois autres commerces étaient localisés sur la rue principale, la rue Elgin de l’époque, aujourd’hui la Rue des Pionniers, à proximité les uns des autres. L’actuelle épicerie Hovington de bannière Intermarché a succédé à l’épicerie Côté ainsi qu’au commerce de François Bourgoing et plus tard, de son fils Ernest. Le local actuel du Café Bohème abritait le magasin général de Pierre Cid et sur le terrain où se situe aujourd’hui la boutique Nima se trouvait le magasin de Johnny N. Maher. Joseph (dit Johnny ou Johnney) Napoléon Maher La famille Johnny Maher, né en 1863 et décédé en 1939, est le fils de Joseph « Jerry » Maher et de Clarisse Gagné. Le 10 août 1886, Johnny épouse Évelyne (Marie Auveline) Hovington (1865-), fille de Édouard Hovington et de Flavine Pedneault. Le couple donnera naissance à un fils, Édouard Thomas (1891-1980) qui épousa en 1918 Emma Vauthier (1898-1966) fille de Édouard Vauthier et Annie-Bridget-Ann Sullivan de St-Godefroi de Bonaventure en Gaspésie. À la suite du décès de son épouse Évelyne Hovington, Johnny épouse en seconde noce en 1898, Laure Boulianne fille de Joseph Boulianne et de Alfeda Levesque. Deux enfants sont issus de l’union, une fille, Marie-Paule (1904-1997) mariée à Ernest Lizotte, et un fils, Robert (1900-1970) époux de Florette Harvey (1918-1985). Les activités professionnelles Johnny Maher aurait possédé une maison sur la Pointe-de-l’Islet. Contraint de la démolir en raison de son expropriation, il en érige une nouvelle près du pont Côté, voisin du futur magasin de Pierre Cid. À la fin des années 1800, Johnny Maher connait quelques difficultés, financières, notamment une faillite en 1891,. Comble du malheur, quelques années plus tard, en 1902, un incendie détruit complètement la maison qui abrite son magasin. Son habitation était sans assurances. Pourtant, comme commerçant avisé il connaissait les risques financiers élevés et l’obligation à la prudence. Tant au premier mariage, à la suite de la faillite, qu’au second, les époux Maher s’assurent d’une union en « séparation de biens » afin de protéger le patrimoine familial,. Au recensement de 1911, Johnny Maher se déclare d’origine écossaise, « marchand » comme occupation principale et « garde-pêche » comme occupation secondaire. Pour ce qui est de son origine écossaise, selon les spécialistes généalogiques, les ancêtres Maher seraient d’origine irlandaise et non écossaise. Pour sa part madame Gaby Villeneuve prétend qu’il est d’origine germanique. Son commerce est surtout orienté sur les denrées sèches et les accessoires de couture. Selon la saison, il offre à sa clientèle des produits de la pêche, notamment le saumon frais. À la création de la municipalité du Village de Tadoussac Johnny Maher est nommé échevin du premier conseil municipal sous la direction du maire Eugène Caron. Plus tard, il siègera à la Commission de la paix pour le district de Tadoussac. Les descendants Le fils ainé de Johnny, Thomas Maher, connaitra une certaine célébrité dans la région de Québec et au-delà. Après sa graduation au cours classique au Séminaire de Chicoutimi en 1913 il poursuit des études en agriculture à Chicoutimi et obtient son diplôme en 1914. Après sa formation à l’Université Laval il devient ingénieur forestier en 1917. Par la suite professeur à l’université Laval où il connaît une belle carrière. Impliqué dans la région de Québec il est reconnu « grand développeur » du lac Saint-Joseph. Il sera également associé à la famille Deschênes de Tadoussac lors de la création en 1918 de la Compagnie de navigation Charlevoix-Saguenay dont il sera le vice-président. La compagnie obtiendra une subvention du Gouvernement afin d’assurer la liaison entre la région de Carlevoix et la Côte-Nord. Thomas épouse Emma Vauthier le 3 janvier 1918, le couple aura 3 enfants. Il est professeur à la faculté des Sciences de l’Université Laval de 1933 à 1958 et professeur émérite en 1958. Il sera vice-président de la Commission canadienne de la radiodiffusion (devenue la Société Radio-Canada), « il est président de la Galerie Nationale à Ottawa depuis 1959; président de l’Association des Ingénieurs forestiers de la Province de Québec (1928-30 et 1952-54) ; fondateur et administrateur de l’hebdomadaire Le Journal (1929-31); président du Conseil diocésain des Oeuvres de Charité du Québec (1950). Il est auteur des ouvrages sur les forêts québécoises « Nos forêts en décadence », « Pays de Cocagne ou terre de Caën » et du roman « Fascination », ainsi que de nombreux articles de journaux et conférences ayant pour thème la forêt. En 1921 il crée avec son fils Robert et un dénommé Henri Grenier de Québec, une compagnie d’exploitation forestière, Thomas Maher inc.. Cette compagnie sera dissoute en 1932. Il décède à Québec le 7 mars 1980. Le Robert Maher, deuxième fils de Johnny, et son épouse Florette Harvey auront deux fils, dont un qu’ils baptiseront Thomas, du même prénom que son oncle, un second Marc et une fille Hélène. Thomas deviendra enseignant à l’École Saint-Joseph de Tadoussac, directeur d’école et plus tard directeur de la Commission scolaire de Tadoussac. Il sera également Commodore de la marina de Tadoussac et le xième maire du village de Tadoussac et président de la Corporation de développement touristique de Tadoussac. Il sera également administrateur au sein du Conseil d’administration de la Société des traversiers du Québec. Hélène épousera le docteur Claude Bossé et Marc s’unira à Michèle Plouffe. La seule fille de Johnny fut Marie-Paule, mariée à Ernest Lizotte. Impliquée au sein de la section locale de la Croix-Rouge, elle en fut secrétaire en 1941. Après son mariage, elle s’installe à Chicoutimi où elle décède en 1997. Johnny Maher décède à Tadoussac le 25 juin 1937 à l’âge de 74 ans et six mois. Au cimetière ancestral de Tadoussac nous retrouvons sa sépulture du côté est, à l’entrée cimetière menant à l’ancien presbytère. Sur l’épitaphe, seuls ses enfants nés de son union avec Laure Boulianne sont inscrits. Aucune trace de Thomas au cimetière de Tadoussac, les restes de ce dernier ainsi que son épouse reposent au cimetière Belmont à Québec. Pierre Cid Marchand General 1960's Back row on the right, ?, Beth Dewart, Maggie Reilley, Michael Reilley, ?, Marie Cid (who ran the store with her brother Joe and sister Alexandra) Joe, Alexandra, Marie Cid Joe, Alexandra, Marie Cid Coosie Price and his granddaughter Elise Mundell Herve Desrosiers From the Middle East PIERRE CID, GENERAL MERCHANT IN TADOUSSAC Daniel Delisle PhD Most of Tadoussac's elders remember the Pierre Cid general store, located in the center of the village on Rue des Pionniers, in a pretty period house with attics where the Café Bohème is today. Perhaps some will even have known Joseph Cid, the son of Pierre Cid, who took over the business upon the death of his father. Venu du Moyen-Oriant PIERRE CID, MARCHAND GÉNÉRAL À TADOUSSAC Daniel Delisle PhD Les ainés de Tadoussac se rappellent, pour la plupart, le magasin général Pierre Cid, situé au centre du village sur la rue des Pionniers, dans une jolie maison d’époque à mansardes où se trouve aujourd’hui le Café Bohème. Peut-être même quelques-uns auront connu Joseph Cid, le fils de Pierre Cid, qui a pris la relève du commerce au décès de son père. Pierre Cid (1866-1948) in his time was undoubtedly a well-known person in Tadoussac and the surrounding area. Local history first identifies the character at the general store, and a general store means a meeting place for village residents. But there is also his West Asian origin which makes the character even more intriguing. The oral transmission of Tadoussac's history suggests that he was born in Syria in 1866. He arrived on Canadian soil between 1894 and 1897, aged in his early thirties. He was then accompanied by his wife Marie Halissah (1877-1945), often named Alice, Marie-Alice, Marie-Halissa, or Alisse, and two children: Victoria (1892-1949), the eldest, and Geneviève (1893-1974). ). According to Ms. Gaby Villeneuve, the little Cid family settled in the Quebec region upon their arrival in Canada, a brother of Mr. Cid, Michel, would already be recognized there as a merchant. This point is confirmed by data from the 19017 census. Syrian-Lebanese immigration is now well documented. Middle Eastern Immigrant From its presumed country of origin, Syria, it should be noted that at this time, the end of the 19th century, the Middle East was experiencing multiple changes due to the fall of the Ottoman Empire. France is present as a colonizing state and plays an important role in this region of the world, in particular to put an end to the massacre of the Catholic communities of Mount Lebanon. This French presence also explains the French-speaking nature of Lebanon and Syria, among others, for many years and still today. Of course, the borders between Lebanon and Syria have fluctuated during this century and the beginning of the 20th and certain cities or regions thus see themselves under different influences. From the Ottoman period until 1920, Lebanon was part of Syria. According to the death notice published in the newspaper L'Action catholique on Saturday March 20, 1948, Pierre Cid was born in the town of "Massoun in Lebanon (Syria)" in 1866. Could this be the current town of Massoud (Massoudiyeh or Massoudieh) from the Akkar district in northern Lebanon? This city is in fact located very close to the current border of the country, in a mountainous region bordering Syria, where Wikipedia reports a significant exodus of its population across the world, including to Canada. The hypothesis of this origin of Pierre Cid seems interesting. However, at the wedding in Ontario of his eldest daughter Victoria, the bride's father claimed to have been born in Tripoli, Syria. Here again, the only city named Tripoli in this region is currently located in Lebanon. In the suburbs of Tripoli there is a town named Hasnoun Massoud region. However, at the time of his birth, Lebanon and Syria were one and the same country: Syria. “This geographical and historical Syria roughly corresponds to the current territories of Syria, Lebanon, Jordan, Israel as well as the occupied Palestinian territories of the West Bank and historic Gaza”, region known as Bilad al -Sham. In any case, Pierre Cid spoke French when he arrived in Canada. Like the majority of Syrian immigrants at the end of the 19th century, he is Catholic. This will facilitate his integration into rural Quebec where he initially worked as a traveling trader between Quebec and the north coast. As previously noted, some suggest that Pierre Cid came to join a brother, Michel, in Canada. We found his trace in the 1901 census data. He was 38 years old and lived in Saint-Romuald, Lévis county, in the company of his brother Pierre, then aged 34, Pierre's wife, Alicia who is 24 years old and three of their children; Geneviève 6 years old, Joseph 3 years old and Antoine 1 year old. Victoria, the eldest, is absent from the census data. The spelling of their last name is incorrect and presented as Seed. A few years ago, during Joseph's baptism on January 2, 1898 in Saint-Romuald-d'Etchemin, his name is indicated in the registers of the parish of Saint-Romuald as godfather of the child. Finally, a funeral notice published on March 20, 1908 announced his death in Saint-Romuald d’Etchemin. Pierre Cid, merchant, father, good practitioner Like many of his Syrian compatriots, trade is a strength and a tradition. In Quebec, they are omnipresent in large urban centers and quickly we find them in the main regions of the province. Good traders, they are associated with the profession of peddler, itinerant seller, to the point where a Quebec expression is associated with them: “the Syrian is coming” to signal the arrival of the traveling merchant. After a few years traveling the Charlevoix and Haute Côte Nord regions as a traveling salesman, offering the population small items such as buttons, pins, threads, scissors, lace, fabrics, stockings, pens, etc.8, he settled in the village of Tadoussac at the beginning of the 1900s. This period corresponds to when his brother Michel died in Saint-Romuald in 1908. His commercial activities in his new host village were initially quite modest, starting from a small local located in the house of Mr. Omer Bouliane, merchant and registrar. After a few years, with business going fairly well, he bought the house from its owner and set up his own general store. It was he who, a few years later, had an extension built at the back of the store to accommodate his family. Pierre Cid quickly became an important and respected personality in the village and in the region. He collaborated on all development projects and his name frequently appeared in the Quebec newspapers of the time, Le Soleil, La Presse, L’Action Catholique and Le Quotidien in particular. We note in particular his numerous trips to Quebec, probably to supply his business. The newspapers also mention his Christian community involvement, either as a member of the Temperance League or as part of the 200th anniversary celebrations of the historic Tadoussac chapel. Over the years the family grew and included a dozen births, four boys and eight girls. Unfortunately, in 1917 he lost a son, Antoine, aged 17. Three other children also died at a young age; two boys, Louis-Joseph at the age of two (1905), Joseph-Paul at three (1915) and a girl, Marie-Juliette during her first year in 1915. There was also a death in 1897, a daughter, during her stay in Saint-Romuald. Some of these burials are engraved on the stele of Pierre Cid at the ancestral cemetery of Tadoussac. During the 1911 census, the children identified in the national register were Victoria, the eldest, who was born in Syria on December 17, 1892, as well as Geneviève on March 16, 1893, who died on June 26, 1974. On January 2, 1897, a girl (anonymous) who died the day before in Saint-Romuald was buried (hence the hypothesis of the arrival of Pierre Cid in the country before 1897). Then followed the children born in Quebec: Joseph, baptized on January 2, 1898 in Saint-Romuald-d'Etchemins, Antoine on December 11, 1900 and died in 1917 (on the epitaph it is indicated 1901 as the date of birth, then that the census specifies that he was born in 1900), Alexandra, June 7, 1904, Joséphine, March 5, 1905, Marie and Antoinette the twins, born April 1, 1910. The children are educated in the Catholic religion as the indications in the newspapers suggest. Indeed, some of the girls were even novices among the nuns, notably Geneviève (Sister Marie-du-St-Esprit) and Antoinette (Sister Alarie-du-good-Pasteur). Joseph also studied at the Sherbrooke Seminary. He obtained good results, particularly in English, a discipline in which he earned a mention in 1918. Witnesses from the time claim that Alexandra and Marie worked with Joseph at the store. Marie apparently suffered from Parkinson's disease. Alexandra's death notice, found in the newspaper Le Soleil on November 7, 1978, announces her death on November 6, 1978 in Quebec at the age of 74. The obituary relates the presence at the funeral of Joseph, Joséphine and Marie. We did not find any other traces of them after this date, other than the mention in the Quebec city directory of Joséphine Cid, annuitant. The Cid descendants Victoria, the eldest, and Antoinette, the youngest, will be the only Cid children to marry. Victoria left Tadoussac around the age of 17, wanting to free herself from overly strict parents, according to local rumors and confirmed by the testimony of her granddaughter Susan Stone. Still according to the latter, she will work as a caregiver within a family of Hungarian origin in Ontario. Victoria married on September 20, 1920, in Toronto, Mr. John Moses Cooley, son of James Cooley of Irish origin and Agnès Clair. During the 1921 census, we found traces of the couple in Niagara Falls. Five children were born from the union: Marie-Agnès, the eldest, was born in Niagara Falls on October 13, 1921. Subsequently, the other four children were born in Toronto: James-Bernard, on December 6, 1923, Margaret-Evelyn on November 24 1924, Clair-Edward May 10, 1927 and John-Leo March 7, 1931. The Cid-Cooley family subsequently grew to include five grandchildren, two boys and three girls, including Susan, who kept us pleasantly informed. Five great-grandchildren were added to the family in subsequent years. During her life in Ontario, Victoria maintained contact with her family in Tadoussac, although infrequently. An article in the Quebec newspaper Le Soleil reports the visit of her brother Joseph to her sick sister in Toronto in 1949. She died that same year at the age of 50. Her grave is located in Saint Michaels Cemetery, Dunnville. Haldimand County, Ontario. For her part, Antoinette Cid, the youngest of the family, after having completed her secondary school studies like her sister Geneviève as novices at the convent of the Antoniennes-de-Marie sisters in Chicoutimi, undertook training in nursing. at the Nursing School of Sainte-Justine Hospital in Montreal. At the end of her studies in May 1940, she began her professional practice in Quebec. His last known address at the time was 6056 rue Saint-Denis in Montreal. In September 1942, at the age of 32, she left the country to settle in New York as a nurse. Having received her training in pediatrics, she will be hired at Misericordia Hospital. It was in the American metropolis that she met David Joseph Barr from Baltimore, widower of the late Mabel Dorothy Tuttle. She married him in October 1954 at Saint-Jean-Baptiste Church in New York. The year before her marriage, a trace of her was found in the American Immigration Service, on a list of passengers from the ship S/S Nassau arriving in New York on April 26, 1953. In July 1978 in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, Antoinette died at the age of 68. Having married at the age of 44, she did not have any children, but evidently, at her marriage her husband had a son, Robert W. Barr who gave her two grandchildren. His grave is located in Saint John the Evangelist Cemetery, Hyde, Baltimore County, Maryland. A few years earlier, on March 16, 1948, the funeral of Mr. Pierre Cid, who died at the venerable age of 82 years and 5 months, was celebrated in Tadoussac. Three years earlier, Madame Marie Hallissah Cid died on July 26, 1945 at the age of 68. An epitaph to their memories is inscribed on a tombstone near the stele of Pierre Cid's lot at the Tadoussac cemetery (photo 4). In his will, as a good Christian, Pierre Cid bequeathed to the factory of the parish of Exaltation-de-la-Sainte-Croix, a sum of $1,000 for the repair of the church bell which had been damaged during of the fire of 1946 which left the temple in ruins. When his father died, it was Joseph Cid who continued the family business. Single, he is supported in the store by two of his sisters: Alexandra and Marie, Amtoinette's twin. The Pierre Cid general store permanently ceased operations in 1976. The house was sold to Mr. Guy Bouchard and subsequently to Gai and Gary Brown who have still owned it since 1981. There will therefore be no descendants with the surname of Pierre Cid. However, several Cid-Cooley descendants in Ontario are from Victoria's marriage. Pierre Cid (1866-1948) à son époque est sans contredit une personne bien connue à Tadoussac et dans les environs. L’histoire locale identifie d’abord le personnage au magasin général, et qui dit magasin général dit lieu de rencontre pour les résidents du village. Mais il y a aussi son origine de l’Asie de l’Ouest qui rend le personnage encore plus intriguent. La transmission orale de l’histoire de Tadoussac suggère en effet qu’il serait né en Syrie en 1866. Il arrive en sol canadien entre 1894 et 1897, âgé dans la jeune trentaine. Il est alors accompagné de sa femme Marie Halissah (1877-1945), souvent prénommée Alice, Marie-Alice, Marie-Halissa, ou Alisse et de deux enfants: Victoria (1892-1949), l’ainée et Geneviève (1893-1974). Selon madame Gaby Villeneuve, la petite famille Cid s’installe dans la région de Québec à leur arrivée au Canada, un frère de monsieur Cid, Michel y serait déjà reconnu comme marchand. Ce point est confirmé par les données du recensement de 19017. L’immigration syro-libanaise est aujourd’hui bien documentée. Immigrant du Moyen-Orient De son pays d’origine présumé, la Syrie, il est à noter qu’à cette époque, soit la fin du 19e siècle, le Moyen-Orient connaît de multiples changements en raison de la chute de l’Empire ottoman. La France est présente comme état colonisateur et joue un rôle important dans cette région du monde, notamment pour mettre fin au massacre des communautés catholiques du Mont-Liban. Cette présence française explique d’ailleurs la nature francophone du Liban et de la Syrie entre autres, depuis de nombreuses années et aujourd’hui encore. Bien entendu, les frontières entre le Liban et la Syrie ont fluctué au cours de ce siècle et du début du 20e et certaines villes ou régions se voient ainsi sous différentes influences. De la période ottomane jusqu’en 1920, le Liban fait partie de la Syrie. Selon l’avis de décès paru dans le journal L’Action catholique du samedi 20 mars 1948, Pierre Cid serait né dans la ville de «Massoun au Liban (Syrie)» en 1866. S’agirait-il de l’actuelle ville de Massoud (Massoudiyeh ou Massoudieh) du district de l’Akkar au nord du Liban? Cette ville est en effet située très près de la frontière actuelle du pays, dans une région montagneuse limitrophe de la Syrie dont Wikipédia relate un exode important de sa population à travers le monde, entre autres vers le Canada. L’hypothèse de cette origine de Pierre Cid semble intéressante. Cependant, lors du mariage en Ontario de sa fille ainée Victoria, le père de la mariée prétend être né à Tripoli en Syrie. Ici encore, la seule ville du nom de Tripoli dans cette région est située actuellement au Liban. Dans la banlieue de Tripoli se trouve une ville au nom de Hasnoun région de Massoud. Or, l’époque de sa naissance, Liban et Syrie ne sont qu’un seul et même pays : la Syrie. « Cette Syrie géographique et historique correspond à peu près aux territoires actuels de la Syrie, du Liban, de la Jordanie, d’Israël ainsi qu’aux territoires palestiniens occupés de Cisjordanie et de Gaza historique », région connue sous le nom du Bilad al-Sham. Quoiqu’il en soit, Pierre Cid parle donc français à son arrivée au Canada. Comme la majorité des immigrants syriens de la fin du 19e siècle, il est de religion catholique. Cela facilitera son intégration au Québec rural où il exerce au début, le métier de commerçant itinérant entre Québec et la côte nord. Comme indiqué précédemment, certains suggèrent que Pierre Cid serait venu rejoindre un frère, Michel, au Canada. Nous avons trouvé la trace de celui-ci aux données du recensement de 1901. Il a 38 ans et habite à Saint-Romuald, conté de Lévis, en compagnie de son frère Pierre alors âgé de 34 ans, de l’épouse de Pierre, Alicia qui a 24 ans et de trois de leurs enfants ; Geneviève 6 ans, Joseph 3 ans et Antoine 1 an. Victoria, l’ainée est absente des données de recensement. L’orthographe de leur nom de famille est erronée et présentée comme Seed. Quelques années au paravent, lors du baptême de Joseph le 2 janvier 1898 à Saint-Romuald-d’Etchemin, son nom est indiqué aux registres de la paroisse de Saint-Romuald comme parrain de l’enfant. Enfin, un avis funéraire paru le 20 mars 1908 annonce son décès à Saint-Romuald d’Etchemin. Pierre Cid, marchand, père de famille, bon pratiquant Comme plusieurs de ses compatriotes syriens, le commerce est une force et une tradition. Au Québec, ils sont omniprésents dans les grands centres urbains et rapidement nous les retrouvons dans les principales régions de la province. Bons commerçants, ils sont associés au métier de colporteur, vendeur itinérant, au point où une expression québécoise leur est associée : « le Syrien s’en vient » pour signaler l’arrivée du marchand ambulant. Après quelques années à sillonner les régions de Charlevoix et de la Haute Côte Nord comme vendeur itinérant, offrant à la population de menus articles tels des boutons, épingles, fils, ciseaux, dentelles, tissus, bas, stylos, etc.8, il s’installe dans le village de Tadoussac au début des années 1900. Cette période correspond où son frère Michel décède à Saint-Romuald en 1908. Ses activités commerciales dans son nouveau village d’accueil sont au début assez modestes, à partir d’un petit local situé dans la maison de monsieur Omer Bouliane, marchand et registrateur. Après quelques années, les affaires allant assez bien, il achète la maison de son propriétaire et y installe son propre magasin général. C’est lui qui, quelques années plus tard, fait construire une extension à l’arrière du magasin pour y loger sa famille. Rapidement Pierre Cid devient une personnalité importante et respectée au village et dans la région. Il collabore à tous les projets de développement et son nom revient fréquemment dans les journaux du Québec de l’époque, Le Soleil, La Presse, L’Action catholique et Le Quotidien notamment. On signale notamment ses nombreux voyages à Québec, probablement pour approvisionner son commerce. Les journaux font également mention de son implication communautaire chrétienne, soit comme membre de la Ligue de tempérance ou encore dans le cadre des fêtes du 200e anniversaire de la chapelle historique de Tadoussac. Au cours des années la famille s’agrandie et compte une douzaine de naissances, quatre garçons et huit filles. Malheureusement, en 1917 il perd un fils, Antoine, âgé de 17 ans. Trois autres enfants décèdent aussi en bas âge; deux garçons, Louis-Joseph à l’âge de deux ans (1905), Joseph-Paul à trois ans (1915) et une fille, Marie-Juliette au cours de sa première année en 1915. On compte également un décès en 1897, une fille, lors de son séjour à Saint-Romuald. Certaines de ces sépultures sont gravées sur la stèle de Pierre Cid au cimetière ancestral de Tadoussac. Lors du recensement de 1911, les enfants identifiées au registre national sont Victoria, l’aînée, qui serait née en Syrie le 17 décembre 1892, de même que Geneviève le 16 mars 1893, décédée le 26 juin 1974 . Le deux janvier 1897 est inhumée une fille (anonyme) décédée la veille à Saint-Romuald (d’où l’hypothèse de l’arrivée de Pierre Cid au pays avant 1897). Suivent par la suite les enfants nés au Québec : Joseph, baptisé le 2 janvier 1898 à Saint-Romuald-d’Etchemins, Antoine le 11 décembre 1900 et décédé en 1917 (sur l’épitaphe il est indiqué 1901 comme date de naissance, alors que le recensement précise qu’il est né en 1900), Alexandra, le 7 juin 1904, Joséphine, le 5 mars 1905, Marie et Antoinette les jumelles, nées le premier avril 1910. Les enfants sont éduqués dans la religion catholique comme le laisse présumer les indications dans les journaux. En effet, certaines des filles ont même été novices chez les religieuses, notamment Geneviève (Sœur Marie-du-St-Esprit) et Antoinette (Sœur Alarie-du-bon-Pasteur). Joseph a également fait des études au Séminaire de Sherbrooke. Il obtient de bons résultats, notamment en anglais, une discipline où il se mérite une mention en 1918. Des témoins de l’époque prétendent qu’Alexandra et Marie travaillaient avec Joseph au magasin. Marie souffrait, semble-t-il, de la maladie de Parkinson. L’avis de décès d’Alexandra, retrouvé dans le journal Le Soleil du 7 novembre 1978, annonce son décès le 6 novembre 1978 à Québec à l’âge de 74 ans. La nécrologie relate la présence aux obsèques de Joseph, Joséphine et Marie. Nous n’avons pas trouvé d’autres traces de ces derniers après cette date, sinon la mention à l’annuaire de la ville de Québec de Joséphine Cid, rentière. La descendance Cid Victoria, l’ainée et Antoinette, la cadette, seront les seuls enfants Cid à se marier. Victoria quitte Tadoussac vers l’âge de 17 ans, désireuse de s’émanciper de parents trop stricts, selon les rumeurs locales et confirmées par le témoignage de sa petite-fille Susan Stone. Toujours selon cette dernière, elle travaillera comme aide familiale au sein d’une famille d’origine hongroise en Ontario. Victoria épouse le 20 septembre 1920, à Toronto, monsieur John Moses Cooley, fils de James Cooley d’origine irlandaise et de Agnès Clair. Lors du recensement de 1921, nous retrouvons la trace du couple à Niagara Falls. Cinq enfants naîtront de l’union: Marie-Agnès, l’aînée naît à Niagara Falls le 13 octobre 1921. Par la suite les quatre autres enfants naîtront à Toronto: James-Bernard, le 6 décembre 1923, Margaret-Evelyn le 24 novembre 1924, Clair-Edward 10 mai 1927 et John-Leo le 7 mars 1931. La famille Cid-Cooley s’est par la suite agrandie de cinq petits enfants, deux garçons et trois filles, dont Susan, qui nous a agréablement informé. Cinq arrière-petits-enfants se sont ajoutés à la fratrie au cours des années subséquentes. Au cours de sa vie en Ontario, Victoria garda, bien que peu fréquent, contact avec sa famille de Tadoussac. Un entrefilet dans le journal Le Soleil de Québec, signale la visite de son frère Joseph auprès de sa sœur malade à Toronto en 1949. Elle décède cette même année à l’âge de 50 ans. Sa sépulture est située au Saint Michaels Cemetery, Dunnville. Haldimand County, en Ontario. De son côté, Antoinette Cid, la plus jeune de la famille, après avoir fait ses études de niveau secondaire à l’instar de sa sœur Geneviève comme novices au couvent des sœurs Antoniennes-de-Marie à Chicoutimi, entreprend une formation en soins infirmiers à l’École des gardes-malades de l’hôpital Sainte-Justine de Montréal. À la fin de ses études en mai 1940, elle débute sa pratique professionnelle au Québec. Sa dernière adresse connue à l’époque est le 6056 rue Saint-Denis à Montréal. En septembre 1942, à l’âge de 32 ans elle quitte le pays pour s’installer à New York comme infirmière. Ayant reçu sa formation en pédiatrie, elle sera embauchée au Misericordia Hospital. C’est dans la métropole américaine qu’elle fera la rencontre de David Joseph Barr de Baltimore, veuf de feue Mabel Dorothy Tuttle. Elle l’épouse en octobre 1954 à l’église Saint-Jean-Baptiste de New York. L’année précédent son mariage, une trace d’elle est retrouvée au Service d’immigration américain, sur une liste de passagers du navire S/S Nassau arrivant à New York le 26 avril 1953. En juillet 1978 à Fort Lauderdale en Floride, Antoinette décède à l’âge de 68 ans. S’étant mariée à l’âge de 44 ans, elle n’aura pas eu d’enfant, mais de toute évidence, à son mariage son mari avait un fils, Robert W. Barr qui lui donna deux petits-enfants. Sa sépulture est située au cimetière Saint John the Evangelist, à Hyde, comté de Baltimore au Maryland. Quelques années plus tôt, le 16 mars 1948, sont célébrées à Tadoussac les funérailles de monsieur Pierre Cid, décédé à l’âge vénérable de 82 ans et 5 mois. Trois ans auparavant, Madame Marie Hallissah Cid est décédée, le 26 juillet 1945 à l’âge de 68 ans. Une épitaphe à leurs mémoires est inscrite sur une pierre tombale près de la stèle du lot de Pierre Cid au cimetière de Tadoussac (photo 4). Dans son testament, en bon chrétien, Pierre Cid lègue à la fabrique de la paroisse de l’Exaltation-de-la-Sainte-Croix, une somme de 1000$ pour la réparation de la cloche de l’église qui avait été endommagée lors de l’incendie de 1946 qui laissa le temple en ruine. Au décès de son père, c’est Joseph Cid qui poursuit le commerce familial. Célibataire, il est appuyé au magasin par deux de ses sœurs: Alexandra et Marie, la jumelle d’Amtoinette. Le magasin général Pierre Cid a cessé définitivement ses opérations en 1976. La maison fut vendue à monsieur Guy Bouchard et par la suite à Gai et Gary Brown qui en sont toujours propriétaires depuis 1981. Il n’y aura donc aucun descendant au patronyme de Pierre Cid. Cependant, plusieurs descendants Cid-Cooley en Ontario sont issus du mariage de Victoria. Bourgouin Cid addition Under Construction MAHER CID'S Bourgouin & Dumont Both these buildings burned in July 1923, and were replaced by the Cote Grocery store. Ces deux bâtiments brûlèrent en juillet 1923 et furent remplacés par l'épicerie Côté. Maher Cid's Bourgouin Dumont Galouine Construit 1900's 1860's 1900's 1880's 1850's Jusq'ua 1970's Now 1923 1923 Maintenant In the town plan it is clear that the Bourgouin and Dumont buildings were close together, and thus were destroyed at the same time, whereas the Cid building and the Galouine on either side were saved. Dans le plan de la ville, il est clair que les bâtiments Bourgouin et Dumont étaient proches l'un de l'autre et furent donc détruits en même temps, tandis que le bâtiment Cid et la Galouine de part et d'autre ont été sauvés. Cote's Raymond Cote La Galouine Cafe Blue? Hotel Boulianne Jeanne Olsen The hotel BOULIANNE was owned by my aunt and my uncle EDGAR OLSEN I worked there at 12 years old and I left to get married Jeanne Olsen l'hotel BOULIANNE cela apartenai a mon oncle et ma tante EDGAR OLSEN j'ai travaillé la a 12 ans et je suis partit pour me marié Chez Mme Ida Villeneuve 1960's 77

PREVIOUS Benmore Quebec NEXT PAGE 1848-1948 Col. Rhodes bought the house in 1848. He died in 1892, his wife Granny Ann Rhodes lived there until 1911. Their daughter Minnie Rhodes Morewood (died 1942) and Henry (Harry) Morewood (died 1916) lived there with their children John, Frank, Nancy, Billy, and Bobby Morewood. Frank Morewood writes: It was a great house to me (not a mansion like Cataraqui but I loved spending time at Benmore and I did spend a lot of time there). My parents were living there when I was born, as my father (Bobby) had lost his job in the depression and he went home to his mother's place with his whole family. At that time it housed my father's mother, two sisters, one of his two brothers and two maids. Benmore was in the family from 1848 to 1948. Colonel Rhodes a acheté la maison en 1848. Il est mort en 1892, son épouse Granny Ann Rhodes y vécut jusqu'en 1911. Leur fille Minnie Rhodes Morewood (mort en 1942) et Henry (Harry) Morewood (mort en 1916) a vécu dans la maison avec leurs enfants John, Frank, Nancy, Billy, et Bobby Morewood. Frank Morewood écrit: C'était une grande maison pour moi (pas une manoir comme Cataraqui mais j'ai adoré passer du temps à Benmore et j'ai fait passer beaucoup de temps là-bas). Mes parents vivaient là quand je suis né, mon père (Bobby) avait perdu son emploi dans la dépression et il rentra chez lui pour la place de sa mère avec toute sa famille. A cette époque, il abritait la mère de mon père, deux sœurs, l'une de ses deux frères et deux servantes. Benmore était dans la famille de 1848 à 1948. Frank Morewood (my grandfather) Vue sur la St-Laurent Minnie and Harry Morewood Billy, Minnie and Bobby Morewood 1890's Carrie and her mother Caroline Rhodes, Minnie Morewood, Billy and Frank, about 1893 Granny (1890's) with Frank Morewood & Jimmy Williams Charlie Rhodes Mary Williams Wallace Armitage Rhodes driving, Godfrey's wife Lily, Minnie and Bobby Morewood, Granny at the back, about 1910. Benmore Tennis C ourt Just two stories, 3rd floor added in 1864 Seulement deux étages, 3ème étage a été ajouté en 1864 View of the St Lawrence The horse's name is Jack Le cheval est appelé Jack I took the photo above in 2001 Granny and Hem on the porch around 1900. Next door, Godfrey's house Cataraquai, that's Godfrey with the dog, about 1920's. Juste à côté, la maison de Godfrey Cataraquai, c'est Godfrey avec le chien, environ 1920. Back to Home Page NEXT PAGE

Lark Reef, Lightships, La Toupie, near Tadoussac, Saguenay River Lark Reef, La Toupie Prince Shoal, Haut-Fond Prince The lighthouse buildings on Lark Reef in 1891 Les bâtiments de phare sur Lark Reef en 1891 From Annual Report Marine and Fisheries 1878 Circa 1950 We visited the reef several times around 1960, it was fun to see the nests and baby seagulls, the same colour as the rocks. Alan Evans with the feather. Nous avons visité le récif plusieurs fois autour de 1960, il était amusant de voir les nids et les baby mouettes, la même couleur que les roches. Alan Evans avec la plume. TROUVER LE MOUETTE SUR LA PHOTO FIND THE SEAGULL IN THE PHOTO Doris Molson and Misty In 1860, H.M.S. Hero, on which the Prince of Wales traveled to Montreal, ran onto a shoal off Tadoussac. The shoal was named “Prince Shoal” (“Haut Fond Prince”). En 1860, H.M.S. Hero, sur lequel le Prince of Wales s'est rendu à Montréal, couru sur un haut-fond au large de Tadoussac. Le banc a été nommé "Prince Shoal" ("Haut Fond Prince"). The Prince Shoal Light was a Light Ship from 1905 until 1964 when the current lighthouse was built. Check out this link: http://www.lighthousefriends.com/light.asp?ID=1626 It includes a description of the construction of the lighthouse, and the story of the storm in 1966 which damaged the structure and scared the men on board. Le Lumière Haut-Fond Prince était un bateau avec une lumière de 1905 à 1964 lorsque le phare a été construit. Consultez ce lien: http://www.lighthousefriends.com/light.asp?ID=1626 Il comprend une description de la construction du phare, et l'histoire de la tempête en 1966 qui a endommagé la structure et a effrayé les hommes à bord. Prince Shoal La Toupie 1962 It is much bigger UNDER the water! >>> C'est beaucoup plus gros SOUS l'eau ! >>> La Toupie is on the same side of the channel as the green buoys and in line with them, guarding the reef. The photo below is interesting, the current is going UP the Saguenay, it's the rising tide. Lark Reef can be seen in the background, with a small beacon. La Toupie est sur le même côté de la voie que les bouées vertes et en ligne avec eux, gardant le récif. La photo ci-dessous est intéressant, le courant est à la hausse au Saguenay, c'est la marée montante. On peut voir le récif Lark en arrière-plan, avec une petite balise. Tower on Point Noir, opposite Tadoussac Tour sur la Pointe Noire, face à Tadoussac 35

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

A descendant of the Russell family, Ann and Russell served in the Tadoussac Chapel for many years Dewart, The Reverend Russell and Ann (Stevenson) A descendant of the Russell family, Ann and Russell served in the Tadoussac Chapel for many years Back to ALL Bios Ann (Stevenson) 1915 - 2008 & the Rev. Russell Dewart 1901 - 1997 Ann de Duplessis Stevenson was born in 1915 at 83 rue d’Auteuil in Quebec City, the daughter of Florence Louisa Maude Russell and Dr James Stevenson. The Stevenson sisters (Margaret, Ann, and Elizabeth) spent their childhood summers in Tadoussac staying at their grandmother's house in the village, the original family cottage Spruce Cliff built by their great-grandfather, Willis Russell in 1861. In 1922, Ann’s father, Dr Stevenson, had their own cottage built for his family in Languedoc Park on land given to them by their cousin, Erie Russell Languedoc. This cottage now remains in Margaret's family and is owned by Margaret's son, Dennis Reilley. In the late 1920s, Dr Stevenson built a second cottage nearby which now remains in Elizabeth's family (the O'Neill house). In 1938, Ann married a Bostonian, Russell Dewart - coincidently her third cousin (Ann was a direct descendant of Willis Russell and Russell was a direct descendant of Willis's brother, William Russell). When one of Russell’s sisters was getting married in Boston, Ann was sent to represent the Canadian branch of the family and was met at the train station by her future husband, Russell. Later, in the 1940s, Ann and Russell Dewart purchased Tivoli, the third Stevenson cottage (now the Dewart house). Tivoli has an interesting history. Shortly after World War I, Erie Languedoc had two square log cabins from the golf course moved on rollers to Tivoli's present location where she joined them together and rented it out. It was then bought from Erie Languedoc by Professor Maclean from Rochester, NY, who named it Tivoli. In 1945, Ann and Russell purchased the cottage from the professor and continued summering there every summer with their six children, Timothy, Alan, Brian, Ted, Beth, and Judy. Many years later, in the mid-1980s, Russell and Ann built their own little chalet across the road from Tivoli. Among Ann's additional pleasures were stimulating and philosophical conversations, exchanging aphorisms, delving into history, reading and writing, brisk walks, and sharing a cup of tea. Ann’s time spent with family at her summer home in Tadoussac was a source of great joy and spiritual renewal. She authored a self-published memoir Nose to the Window which included reflections, poems, letters, and anecdotes of her rich and vibrant life including much history of early Tadoussac and growing up in Quebec City. Russell Dewart, was asked to tell of his life for his 50th college anniversary and part of what Russell wrote is below: “… after getting a delayed degree at Harvard, I took the rather conventional business route of selling everything from rubber boots to investment counselling. The salesman whom my long-suffering wife married turned up a few years later in the pulpit with a round collar, but with few of the other less discernible attributes usually associated with the Ministry. I regard this complete change of direction as one of the many paradoxes of my life and makeup. Having entered the Episcopal Seminary in Cambridge at the age of forty-three it was hard for me to believe that I had spent twenty-three years as a parish priest when I retired (for the first time). While a clergyman’s life can be parochial and unexciting, I have found it a most challenging profession and one that is deeply rewarding. Perhaps the reason I say this is that the greatest joy I find in life is through my relationships with people of all ages and conditions - beginning of course with my own family and friends. The church records tell me that it has been my privilege to be called on to baptize, marry or bury some 1600 souls, and to present another 800 to the Bishop for Confirmation. These occasions for most individuals, as well as other times of tragedy and joy, are crucial and searching experiences. They are times when the clergyman is allowed to share some of the most significant moments in a family’s life together. For him, they provide the unique opportunity to do what he was ordained to do – to walk along with his people as one who serves. Because of this, and for what he himself has learned from them – these times are never forgotten. My entire Ministry has been here in Massachusetts - at Epiphany, Walpole; Grace Church, Chicopee, and St. Peter’s, Beverly. Since retiring in 1967, I have served part-time at the Old North Church in Boston where my father was Rector fifty years ago, and more recently as Interim Pastor at St. John’s, Beverly Farms. Throughout these years I have been blessed beyond measure with the kindness and appreciation of so many people in return for what little I on my own might give. God does work in mysterious ways. Other activities during the past fifty years have centred largely around my family and home. Since the war, we have spent some part of most summers at our cottage in Tadoussac, Quebec – where the Saguenay River joins the St. Lawrence. It is here where my wife came as a child and where we as a family have spent some of our happiest days. Now our children return there with their children and friends – to the place they consider their first home. We acquired our present home here, a small, cosy, New England house built originally by one Jeffrey Thistle, a planter, in 1668. Jeffrey built well but there is enough to keep me busy and happy in caring for his clapboard house and half-acre of land. It is here we expect to live out our days with occasional visits to our six children, and possibly further travel abroad if the spirit moves and the conditions are favourable. But we are quite content to remain where we are. There is a good stack of Vermont hardwood outside for our fireplaces; there are some fish left in the ocean a half-mile away. And we are surrounded by friends. Fortunately, Ann and I still enjoy good health and, most of the time, our sense of humour. We are able to pursue our individual interests and to look forward not to vegetating, but to making the most of what time is left to us in being useful and helpful to others in our own particular way. The Lord has been good to us; our life together has been a full and happy one.” Russell Dewart served faithfully as a summer rector for twenty-one years (1953-1974). He died in 1997 and Ann died eleven years later in 2008. Both are buried in the family plot in Mount Hermon Cemetery, Quebec. Brian Dewart Back to ALL Bios

Bill and Ainslie lived in the same Tadoussac cottage at different times, met in Montreal, and married! Stephen, William Davidson and Dorothy Ainslie Bill and Ainslie lived in the same Tadoussac cottage at different times, met in Montreal, and married! Back to ALL Bios Dorothy Ainslie Evans 1922 - 2017 & William Davidson Stephen 1907 - 1974 Dorothy Ainslie Evans (known by all as Ainslie) was born in Montreal, Quebec on August 6, 1922, the daughter of Trevor Ainslie Evans and Dorothy Gwendolyn Esther Rhodes, both summer residents of Tadoussac. Ainslie embraced Tadoussac’s summer community and all the usual activities including tennis, golf, beach walks, and picnics, as well as the occasional brief dip in the bay. She served for many years on the Executive of The Tadoussac Protestant Chapel. In addition to spending every summer in Tadoussac, she was a lifetime resident of Montreal, having received her schooling at Miss Edgar’s and Miss Cramp’s School as a child. William Davidson Stephen (Bill) was born in Montreal, Quebec, on October 24, 1907, the son of William Davidson Stephen and Eleanor Longmuir White. Tragically, Bill’s father died of pneumonia prior to the birth of his young son and namesake. As a child, Bill would accompany his mother and older brother, and sometimes his maternal grandmother, to Tadoussac, where they would stay as guests of Alfred Piddington in his newly built summer cottage. Theirs are the first three names in the guest book of Mr. Piddington’s house in 1914, and the guest book survives to this day. As a child, Bill attended The High School of Montreal, whereafter he joined what would become The Canadian International Paper Company (CIP). There he remained for his entire career, retiring from the Treasury Department on his 65th birthday. As a young man in Montreal, Bill participated in many sports, including lacrosse, water polo, sailing, tennis, and particularly golf, which he continued to enjoy all his life. In his management role at CIP, he worked with a young lady named Ainslie Evans. When Ainslie was preparing to leave for her summer vacation, Bill inquired where she would be going, to which she replied “a small place that you would have never of heard of”. One can only imagine the discussion that followed that statement. Not only had Bill visited Tadoussac many years earlier, he’d actually stayed in the same house that Ainslie’s parents had bought from Alfred Piddington’s Estate! One likes to think that this surprising Tadoussac connection led to what followed. Bill married Ainslie in Westmount on April 15, 1944, and thereafter spent his summer vacations at Tadoussac with his family, returning to the same house that he had visited as a child. Their three children (Margeret, William and Peter) and two grandchildren (Alexander and Mary), have always been, and remain, Tadoussac enthusiasts. In Montreal, Ainslie volunteered for many years with Red Feather (Centraide) campaigns, as well as in the Hospitality Shop of The Montreal General Hospital. She was an enthusiastic gardener, golfer, badminton player, and skier (both downhill and cross-country), and participated in all sports well past the age when most have retired. She also played a strong game of bridge and enjoyed its challenges with her friends and family in both Tadoussac and Montreal. Bill was a lifetime resident of Montreal. He died there in 1974 on his 67th birthday, two years to the day after his retirement. He is remembered by his children as a somewhat quiet man with a splendid sense of humour; a dedicated, supportive, and loving father. Ainslie loved to reminisce about her early years spent in Tadoussac with her parents, siblings; Phoebe, Trevor (Bucky) and Rhodes Bethune (Tim) as well as her friends and cousins. She loved to look back on how much things had changed since the days of steamboat travel and dances at the Hotel Tadoussac when there was no electricity and all meals were cooked on a wood stove. She remembered well when local travel was by horse and buggy over unpaved roads. She was also a fount of knowledge on her family’s history. She is remembered by her children as a dedicated, loving spouse, mother and grandmother. A lifetime Tadoussac summer resident, Ainslie celebrated her 95th birthday there with family shortly before her death on November 7, 2017. She lies next to her beloved Bill in the Mount Royal Cemetery in Montreal. Photos below Phoebe, Trevor, Ainslie and Tim Phoebe, Susie Russell, Ainslie and Betty Morewood (Evans) Back to ALL Bios