there were two notes but the one was recalled… Bella was at a small party for tea at Clara Simpson’s last night and enjoyed herself very much. There were only girls invited. I couldn’t say that Robert has done much work lately excepting talking and watching us play. Mary is a little cross to us… nevertheless we are getting along first rate…
Satisfied, he dipped his pen in the ink. It was time to get to the heart of the matter.
I can just imagine you sitting there, Papa reading the letters and Mamma sitting listening to them with eager eyes and both of your hearts full. For I know that mine was when I got your letter and you saying what a brutal thing it was for any person to poison our dear little Fanny.
Willie felt a stab of pain as he remembered their dear, loving black dog, Fanny. He had been the one to receive the news from the hired man that their pet had been found dead, poisoned. Though he thought his heart would break from grief and shock, he had been obliged to organize collecting the poor contorted body.
We went the next morning and got Fan and buried her and put stones over her grave. We buried her just opposite the barn in the woods near that post and little Max every few minutes would run and sit on her grave and cry. We do miss her very much.
Willie’s handwriting looped wildly. He had been as upset as Max, but he didn’t show it in the same way. Poor Max believed that Fanny had died because he had committed some wicked sin. “I will be good,” his little brother wailed. Bella and Jennie had cried just as much. Willie could not permit himself many tears. He tried to comfort Bella, Jennie, and Max with scriptures and prayers. A real minister would have known what to say, but Willie could only do his best. Surely God would comfort them and punish the perpetrator of the dastardly deed.
Willie resumed writing, holding his pen in firm control.
But that can’t be helped. If you should see another little dog like her to bring it along with you… but I guess you would find it a hard job to get another faithful little dog as faithful as she was…
It is now nearly noon and time to go home for my dinner. I am carrying out business as well as can be done. I am keeping track of my hours, and will be able to give you a receipt for my services when you get home. I must close now giving my best love to you from me and all the others.
I remain your loving son
William Lyon Mackenzie King
Later that afternoon, Willie was in the garden, scuffling a long row of potatoes. “Sciff scritch,” went the hoe. A lone crow cawed from the big pine tree. Where are Bella and Jennie? Willie wondered. I could use a drink.
They’ll be coming soon with the bucket of cool ice water, he thought. He decided to stop work and wait for them in the shade. He lay back in the tickly grass and watched the branches wave above, slowly fanning the lazy midsummer sky.
I miss Fanny, Willie realized. Normally, her panting black body would be lying beside him, her pink tongue lolling out of her mouth, her tail thumping happily every time her young master spoke or patted her shaggy head. “I miss Fan,” he half-whispered aloud.
Again the crow cawed. A grey squirrel scampered up a nearby maple. Willie looked once more into the pattern of the branches and the sky. Mesmerized, his mind slipped into wondering and dreaming.
What purpose does the Creator have for me? I am sure it is to do good, to be as good a man as my father, to be as great a man as my grandfather. I feel I am meant to help others less fortunate than me, but I do not yet know how. Father, in his talks, has begun to prepare me for university. Mother too, is encouraging me. What, what shall I be?
“Do you know?” he asked out loud to the saucy squirrel, which had curiously come near him. The squirrel churred, flicked its tail in alarm, and scurried back to its tree. Willie laughed.
“I didn’t think you knew any better than I,” he said and returned to his silent reverie. Would he be a lawyer like Papa? His father had recently been appointed a Queen s Counsel. Law seemed a noble profession. Or a minister? That way he would help people and please God. Or would he enter a life of public service? He often thought he would be a politician like Grandfather and maybe, maybe even one day return to Woodside, beloved Woodside, and purchase it. The reward after a life of helping others. Perhaps, perhaps… and his dreams became fuzzy, golden and warm.
On his way. Willie graduates with a master’s degree from the University of Toronto (1897) and one from Harvard (1898).
University of Toronto
Toronto, Ontario
October, 1891
“Let’s go on an expedition, lads!” King proposed. “Let’s hike out over to the cemetery and visit the grave of Toronto’s first mayor and hero of the people.”
“Your grandfather, you mean?” asked his longtime friend from Berlin, Louis Breithaupt.
“Of course!” King smiled.
“It’s a grand day,” his college pal Bert Harper pointed out. “Let’s go!” Harper and Breithaupt were as eager as King to explore their new surroundings.
Looking smart in their new suits and hats, the three young men set out. The city near the University of Toronto boomed with the sounds of industrial growth. As they made their way through streets filled with bustling carts and trolley cars, the students couldn’t help notice that not all of Toronto’s 181,000 souls were in step with the march toward progress. Many recently arrived immigrants were homeless. The boys passed alleys where entire families camped out despite the chill of the autumn nights. When King saw the faces of dirty and hungry children he wondered how things got that way and what he could do to make them better.
When the young men entered the cemetery, the angry din of the city was replaced with a golden-green peace. The autumn sun smiled, the leaves danced down from the trees and fell onto the quiet memorials of the generations who, King believed, had gone on to greater glory.
Although he couldn’t remember quite where the grave was, as if led by instinct, Willie led the little band in search of Mackenzie’s burial site. “Here it is!” he called out before long.
When the boys gathered around Mackenzie’s grave, King almost couldn’t speak. It was such a powerful moment, reverently observing the hallowed spot and seeing friends’ faces, quietly impressed.
King held his hat in his hands and briefly closed his eyes. He thought of all his grandfather had worked to accomplish in his life. But the poor suffered as much as they had in the days when the elder William Lyon was alive. His grandson should change things. Surely he would accomplish some great work before he died!
Silently, King renewed his vow to become as great a man as he could and to help others. At university he would prepare himself for his life’s work, whatever God showed him it would be.
