The outcome was disappointing.  The uncouth sounds, translated by Grey, were bald, bare, and stiff.  Soon the stiffness worked off.  With half-shut eyes Carlton lived again in the woods.  He lifted the dewy branch of a tree and surprised the mother deer making the toilet of her fawn, saw the beaver busied with his home of mud and wattles, heard the coyote scream across the prairie edge.  Easily the thought flowed, and the stuff that Grey handed in was a live story that breathed.  In that brave heart the joy of the creator stirred, and with it that feeling which makes all endeavour worth while—­the thought that somebody cares.  A close observer at this stage of the game may read, too, on the face of Grey the kindly look that comes when we forget ourselves long enough to take the trouble to reach out for another man’s viewpoint.

Carlton’s short stories, submitted to a publisher, were pronounced good, were accepted, and brought a cash return.  They struck a new note among the squabblings of the nature-fakers.  Favourable comment came from those who read them, who, reading, knew naught of their three authors.  Before this Carlton had never written a line for publication; but he had been a true observer.  He had felt, and was able to project himself into the minds of those living things he had seen and hunted.

I leave the hospital cot with a strange lump forming in my throat, although every one around me, and the patient most of all, is gay and blithe.  I say to Carlton, “I wish I could take your knowledge and your eyes with me into the North, there is so much I will miss because of my lack of knowledge.”  With Grey’s kindly interpretation I get my answer, “You must take your own mind, your own eyes; you must see for yourself.”

During the last day in Winnipeg, while the Kid (like faithful Ariovistus) is looking after the impedimenta, I snatch half an hour to look in at the Royal Alexandra upon the reception which the Women’s Canadian Club is tendering to Mrs. Humphry Ward.  Rain-bespattered, short-skirted, and anchored with disreputable rubbers gluey with Winnipeg mud, I sit on the fringe of things, fairly intoxicated with the idea that we are off and this North trip no dream.  Mrs. Sanford Evans presides with her usual savoir faire and ushers in the guest of the day, beautifully-gowned and gracious.

Like a bolt from the blue came the summons from the president, and I, all muddy, am called to the seats of the mighty.  I have never seen a more splendid aggregation of women than the members of the Winnipeg Canadian Club, tall, strong, alert, and full of initiative.  To face them is a mental and moral challenge.  I try to hide those muddy shoes of mine.  The Winnipeg women are indulgent, they make allowance for my unpresentable attire, and shower upon me cheery wishes for the success of my journey.  Mrs. Humphry Ward calls attention to the lack of playgrounds in England.  She wants to bring more fresh air and space to the crowded people of the Old World.  I submit that my wish is the mathematical converse to hers.  My great desire is to call attention to the great unoccupied lands of Canada, to induce people from the crowded centres of the Old World to use the fresh air of the New.