We lived on
Frog Creek, which runs from the Lake into the North Saskatchewan. In
October last, Mr. Gowanlock, who shared the same fate as my husband,
and whose kind and gentle wife was my companion through all the
troubles and exposures of our captivity and escape, began to build a
mill two miles from our place, on the waters of Frog Creek. He put up
a saw mill and had all the timber ready to complete a grist mill, when
he was cut short in his early life, and his wife was cast upon the
mercy of Providence. They lived two miles from us. Many of those whom
I knew were mill hands. Gilchrist who was killed, was an employee of
Mr. Gowanlock.
Frog Lake is pretty large. I know that in one direction it is twelve
miles long. In the centre of the lake is a large island, that is
clothed in a garb of evergreen. The pine and spruce upon it are extra
large, sound and plentiful. In fact it would be difficult to find a
place where better timber for building and other purposes, could be
cut. The place is gradually becoming developed, and when I consider
all that has been done, in the way of improvement, since I first went
there, I would not be surprised to learn, that in the near future, the
principal parts of the country shall be under cultivation, that the
clang of the mill shall be heard upon every stream, and that down the
Saskatchewan may float the produce of a fresh, a virgin, a teeming
soil, to supply the markets of the Old World, and to supplant the
over-worked fields of the eastern countries.
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