142 MELTON AND HOMESPUN 



In due course we pulled up before the verandah of 

 the hotel which formed my head-quarters, and, having 

 partaken of sundry tots of the spirit of friendship, in 

 the shape of excellent rye whisky, the Scot opened his 

 heart sufficiently to admit that his farm was situated 



near the township of C , some six-hours' wagon 



journey north-west of Muskoka, and also that some very 

 fair shooting was obtainable in the neighbourhood. 



But to curtail a long story. During supper that 

 night, I arranged to accompany the Scotsman to his farm 

 the next day. The team was hitched to the wagon, 

 and we left the still sleeping township of Muskoka shortly 

 after dawn. It was a glorious morning, such as one so 

 often experiences in Canada during what is known as the 

 Indian summer. 



A great portion of the way led through virgin forest, 

 and the foliage of the giant forest trees had, by the magic 

 touch of Queen Autumn, passed from their summer 

 verdure to gorgeous tints of scarlet, gold, and crimson. 

 But the forest glades were wondrous silent, for the 

 feathered songsters had long ceased their love carolling, 

 the summer migrants had flown to their winter habitats, 

 and, but for the occasional crow of a ruffed grouse, the 

 laugh-like cry of the woodpecker, or the harsh shriek 

 of a blue jay, one might have imagined the woodlands 

 were devoid of life. 



Shortly after midday we arrived at our destination, 

 and a more curious, albeit picturesquely situated, build- 

 ing than Mac's homestead I had seldom, if ever, set 

 eyes upon. Approached by a rough corduroy wagon 

 track cut through the heart of the extensive woodland, 



