AMONG THE ISLANDS OF GEORGIAN BAY. 417 

AMATEUR PHOTO BY MAY BRAGOON, 
THE SURVEYOR’S BRIDGE. 
and bear steaks, smothered in onions, are 
cheap and good. 
A fisherman’s wife at the Point made us 
good bread, and the lighthouse keeper kept 
also a cow. Each evening, when he 
came to the range light a mile down toward 
St. Helena, he brought our big pail of milk, 
left it in a barrel on the shore of the is- 
land, and it was our nightly pleasure to row 
up at sunset, get the milk and leave an 
empty pail. 
Though the Point was a mile and a half 
i - LEO ROOM LZEO ROOM be 
. LIVING FOOT 
& {oe eee | 
PIAZZA 
away, and there was only one other shack 
and a surveyors’ camp nearer, we were 
never lonely, for the house was always full, 
and Bonaparte bay faced the channel, where 
all sorts of fishing craft, lumber tugs, 
freight boats, pleasure yachts and 4 times a 
week the big “Britannic” passed. Sometimes 
the picturesque Ojibway Indians silently 
paddled by at evening, outlined against a 
primrose sky; and dear, big hearted Cana- 
dian friends came often, laden with baskets 
of good things to picnic somewhere with 
us, or sit around our fire, or dance on our 
piazza to the tunes of an Indian’s fiddle. 
More than once friends from the Point 
were stormbound there. Then cots, ham- 
mocks and tents overflowed, and everyone 
helped bake pancakes in the morning on 
the merry little Klondike stove. 
One year before, this place was a wilder- 
ness. Saint Helen herself was only a fish- 
ing guest up at the hotel, with Him and his 
Wife for chaperones; but they bought an 
island, and she bought St. Helena—2 or 3 
acres, with rocks and woods, a jungle, hills 
and ravines, bays and promontories—all for 
a song. A little American hustling, with 
a big brother to go up in the spring and 
assist, built the pretty shack, the cost of 
which, including the island, was less than 
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