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Updated: May 17, 2025
"Glorious time" . . . "Did you?" . . . "Temagami" . . . "camped out for three weeks" . . . "Indian guides" . . . "Such diving" . . . "Heavenly time" . . . "Murray Bay" . . . Then a louder voice "Miss Marlowe wants Peggy Forrest." "Here, Piggy, hurry along" and a fat girl was propelled through the crowd. "Jane, my dear, I thought you were never coming," heralded a new arrival.
If it were necessary further to establish the honesty of the forest Indian, I could add many proofs from my own experience, but one will suffice: Years ago, during my first visit to the Hudson's Bay Post on Lake Temagami, when the only white man living in all that beautiful region was old Malcolm MacLean, a "freeman" of the H. B. Co., who had married an Indian woman and become a trapper, I was invited to be the guest of the half-breed Hudson's Bay trader, Johnnie Turner, and was given a bedroom in his log house.
We react to nature as does no other race. We are the descendants of pioneers all of us. And if we have not inherited a memory of pioneering experiences, at least we possess inherited tendencies and desires. The impulse that drove Boone westward may nowadays do no more than send some young Boone canoeing on Temagami, or push him up Marcy or Shasta to inexplicable happiness on the top.
But now that the white man has made Lake Temagami a fashionable summer resort, and the civilized Christians flock there from New York, Toronto, Pittsburgh, and Montreal, how long would the trader's money remain in an open box beside an open window on a dark night?
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