“Dear hearts are here, dear hearts are there,
Alike below, above;
Our friends are now in either world,
And love is sure of love.”

— Whittier.

THE principal idea I had in writing these stories of Muskoka was to contrast the Muskoka of twenty-five or thirty years ago with the Muskoka of the present day, and by so doing enable you to judge of its rapid growth and of the great changes which have taken piace in that time. I will, therefore, now pass over a period of fifteen or sixteen years and bring you with a jump to the spring of 1902.

It will be necessary, in the first place, to give you a brief summary of the intervening events, especially as regards ourselves, for these years have not passed without many changes, and sad ones, in the Hathaway family. Our beloved father and mother have left us, though the memory of their love and the influence they wield in our midst grows only stronger as time rolls on. As the poet so truthfully says

"God calls our loved ones, but we lose not wholly
What He hath given;
They live on earth, in word and deed, as truly
As in God’s heaven.”

Our band of brothers and sisters is still unbroken. My father’s last wish was that we should remain united and happy while we lived on earth, that no division should ever enter our loving circle until, reunited by death, we should once more become “ one family in heaven,” where partings are unknown.

My brothers and sisters are now each one the head of a family; even I, myself, the old maiden auntie, have at last realized the dream of my life and am the happy possessor of a comfortable and cosy home of my own in this country I love.

We are all living in Muskoka now, with the exception of Sue, and we are doing our best to coax her to come to us. I believe we shall succeed before many years pass over our heads. Ben and his wife have a family of five daughters and a son, and Winnie has a family of five sons and a daughter, which evens things up nicely.

My house is near to them, and the young folks of both families are my constant visitors. From my bedroom window, when I go to my bed at night, I can see the lights at Winnie’s, twinkling like stars, so I never feel lonely. I will spare you the details of how my little abode was planned and thought over for years—for anticipation has blossomed into realization—it is really built, and I am really living in it, and if God wills I mean to live in it for the remainder of my mortal life.

I must tell you that I met with some opposition when I decided to make Muskoka my home. Friends in Toronto felt sure I should never like it up here in the winter. They said, “Oh, it’s all very well in the summer, but just wait till the cold weather.” Well, I waited, and my first winter is a thing of the past, and I can truthfully say I never, in all the winters I have spent in Canada, felt the cold so little. I have worn no extra clothing, indeed I rarely put a hat on my head except when I go church or Sunday; a great saving on the millinery bills you see. I have never felt better, eaten better, slept better, than since I came here. Instead of longing to go back to my friends in Toronto, I am longing for my friends to come to me in Muskoka.

I won’t say any more about the winter, for I mean to devote a chapter to that presently. It is only fair you should have Muskoka presented to you fairly, the hot and the cold sides. So to go back to “my home,” I have no doubt you will laugh at the name I owe it, I believe, to my nephew Tom, my sister Winnie’s second son, whom the other children call “Tom the Torment,” for he delights in teasing. Of this young gentleman also you will hear more later on. I had intended to give it a far more romantic name, but it has been dubbed “Old Maid’s Lodge,” and the title seems to stick, so we will leave it at that. The fact is certain that the owner is an “old maid” and likely ever to remain so. I have come to the conclusion that it is best there should be one old maid in every family; for who is there so useful in sickness and trouble as an “old auntie." Has it not been the custom of my sisters and sisters-in-law, for long years past, when anything ails my young nephews and nieces, to say, “Send for Nan, she will come.” And I leave my animals, chickens, ducks and the rest, which are all I have, to mother, and go to their assistance.

A wee niece said to me the other day, as she was watching me feed some little chicks, “You are just like a mother to them, Auntie.’’ “Yes,” I replied, “I am a regular ‘old hen.’” She said, “If I were a little chicken, I’d rather have you for a mother than any of the other old hens.” “Thank you, my dear, that is quite a compliment.” But a new idea struck the little maid, and the next query was not so easily answered. “Auntie Nan, if you are their mother, I would like to know who is their father?” “Well,” I said, “I think you will have to ask Santa Claus, he might know.”

My brother Ben married very young. His wife was the daughter of a farmer who settled in Muskoka shortly before my father came here. His daughters look almost more like his sisters, for he still retains his youthful look, and to us always seems a boy. He is a general favorite and known far and wide for his good nature and love of fun. Everyone likes to hear his stories and, as he is so well acquainted with everybody and everything in Muskoka, his house is seldom without visitors, summer or winter. He is our nearest neighbor, except Winnie, and a little farther still Bet has her home—so we are growing quite a colony of Hathaways.

I have my visitors from the city, too, and very nice I feel it that I can have them in my own home. Of course, old maids are always welcome here; that is, the nice kind. The days are gone by when the typical old maid was described as a sour, disagreeable mischief-maker. As the old ditty says: “Pleased to ruin others’ wooing; never happy in their own.” No, I and my friends belong to the good-natured class, “who try to be happy, though single,” and so far success has crowned our efforts. My sisters are the only ones who sometimes bemoan the fact that I am an old maid. They say I should have made such a good mother; even going so far as to nick-name me "The doting mother,” which is an outrageous name for a spinster, though I think the mother love is strong in my heart, and many an argument have I had with Bet and Winnie as to whether it were not possible for me to love their children as much as they did. They always came off victorious, of course. But one thing sure, they must have some faith in my love for their offspring, for wherever there has been a possibility of anything happening to either of them, the children were always committed to the care of Auntie N an; though, I am thankful to say, such a contingency has never occurred, and I hope never will.

My brother Joe’s farm is distant three or four miles. He has only two children, my dark-haired namesake and a son, another Joe, a strong and sturdy young fellow with an arm that could fell an ox.

Hathaway’s Bay has also undergone quite a few changes in these years. The trees planter! by my dear father and mother are towering nearly to the roof. Improvements have been made on every side. Where was once dry, sandy soil is now a verdant lawn. The apple trees they set are loaded every year down to the ground with fruit. Nowhere can we turn without seeing the handiwork of our dear departed ones. I think it is this which makes the place so dear to the hearts of their children. We see them in everything. As Whittier says, in words much more eloquent than any I can use:

“All lovely things by thee beloved
Shall whisper to our hearts of thee,
The sunset light of autumn eves
Reflecting on the deep still floods.
Cloud, crimson sky and trembling leaves
Of rainbow-tinted woods.
These, in our view, shall henceforth take
A tenderer meaning for your sake;
And all you loved, of earth and sky,
Seem sacred to your memory.