ON THE ISLAND OF MINNEWAWA. 



It was a lovely summer day in July, 1893, when we took 

 possession of Minnewawa, our island in Stony Lake. 

 The little platform that had done duty as wharf the 

 year before had floated from its moorings, but a strong 

 hand soon helped to replace it and to put me on the 

 level ground above the rocky shores. A little out of 

 breath from the climb, I sat down on the steps of the 

 veranda surrounding the house to rest and enjoy the 

 beauty of the prospect. 



The lake, with its wild wooded rocky shores and its 

 many islands, lay before me. The latter were of all 

 forms and sizes, from the tiny islet that was no more 

 than a half-hidden rock against which the wavelets 

 lifted themselves and broke softly, almost caressingly, to 

 the large tree-clad island, with deeply-indented bays and 

 overhanging vine-covered rocks. There were rugged, 

 darkly furrowed masses of rock, without foliage save a 

 few tufts of juniper, their sides covered with grey 



