expected to devote themselves to the tasks of intellectual preparation. Schoolwork did not stop even after several hours of homework. John King hired a governess to assist the children with German and other subjects. Many Berliners were more fluent in German than in English. When Miss Siebert came to stay with the family, the local Presbyterian minister and family friend, Reverend Mr. Winchester, was also included in the little Woodside German classes.
When their noses weren’t in school books, the Kings were always reading something else. Almost every evening the cozy panelled library was alive with discussions regarding events they had read about in newspapers or the books that lined the walls. Reading and thinking about important issues was part of the children’s heritage. Grandfather Mackenzie and Great-Uncle Macdougall had edited newspapers. Their father not only wrote articles for newspapers and other publications, but also legally represented the Canadian Press Association. At Woodside, John wrote a book about his father-in-law, in which he argued that Mackenzie was a misunderstood man. The King children were encouraged to have their own opinions, and to seek to do good, to make Berlin and the world beyond a better place.
The students in the gymnasium of the Berlin High School were beginning to squirm, and Willie couldn’t help but notice. Most times he’d rather be having fun by joining his classmates on the cricket or football field or engaging in some silly prank. But today he wanted them to listen. He was speaking about something important.
“The next topic addressed,” King began, assailing a fresh section of his lengthy speech, “concerned …”
“Mr. King,” Principal Connor was on his feet. He peered at Willie over his pince-nez glasses, and his flowing white beard touched his chest as he tilted his head. “We must proceed with the other items on our agenda. I would like to thank you for your interesting narrative on the political meeting you attended.” Willie took his seat to the sound of his classmates’ applause.
“That’s my brother, Old Grandpa,” Bella whispered to her seatmate, Emma Bauer.
“Old Grandpa?” the girl whispered back. “Is that because he’s named after his grandfather?”
“That and because he’s as serious as a little old man, always setting us on the right path” his sister replied.
“I think,” Zulema Seyler piped up, “that Willie King is a silver-tongued orator.” Her friends giggled.
“He may want to be a politician one day,” his friend Oscar Rumpal contributed,” but if you meet Billy in a fist fight you’ll know why we call him The Rebel.”
“Young ladies and gentleman!” a teacher reproached sternly.
John King’s Law Office, Germania Block
Berlin, Ontario
August 6, 1888
“May I help you?” The young man looked up with serious blue eyes. As the teenager was costumed in a suit and tie, despite the August heat, the messenger assumed he was the office clerk.
“Give this bill for telegramming to Mr. King, will you?”
“Mr. King is in Muskoka, vacationing.”
“Vacationing, eh? That might explain why he hasn’t paid it yet. When’s he back?”
“Tuesday next.”
“Just give it to him then.”
“I will direct it to his attention immediately upon his return,” William smiled confidently.
The man left and Willie set the bill on the pile of invoices growing between the stacks of newspaper clippings and letters on the desk. Next to the telephone he had cleared a space and was writing a letter. At age fourteen, Willie increasingly took on more responsibilities in his role of the eldest son. He kept an eye out for his siblings, helped his parents, and even minded his father’s business.
He reread the paragraphs he had written under John King’s letterhead.
“Dear Papa and Mama,” he had begun, “I must answer your loving letter…” He followed with a report of duties as the man in charge.
I have protested two notes and while I was at the bank yesterday 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.
