simcop: lake 51 



train has climbed to an altitude of over 1500 feet 

 above sea level. 



On the journey, Lake Simcoe is touched, a pictu- 

 resque sheet of water. The town of Barrie on the 

 opposite side can be seen nestling in a red setting of 

 comfortable-looking English villas. It is a popular 

 resort, much frequented by the paterfamilias of large 

 neighbouring towns and cities. Wooded islets are 

 dotted over the lake, yachts expand their white sails 

 in the light breeze, and canoes gracefully glide over 

 water Italian in its blue depths. As the train skirts 

 the lake, sea-gulls rise and whirl out of danger in an 

 agitation that shows them still unreconciled to this 

 encroachment on their solitude. Kempenfeldt Bay, 

 reviving another Dutch memory in name only, comes 

 after Barrie, and is twenty-five miles long. There 

 Muskoka Lake, bathed in all the splendour of the sun- 

 set, marks another stage in the Highland journey. A 

 pale-faced girl leaves the train with fresh elasticity in 

 her tread. She has been the victim of typhoid, of 

 which Toronto, magnificent city that it is, is by no 

 means innocent. But Muskoka, with its green pines 

 and lichen-shaded rocks and its air of heaven-distilled 

 purity — the red steals into the livid face at the very 

 sight of it. 



It was dark when the train climbed up the last 

 ascent that led to our destination. But the concen- 

 trated sound enabled the senses to feel the proximity 

 of the forest. Now and again the loud roar of a 



