Jim MacDonald had the top floor in the Studio Building but due to illness in 1917 moved to ground floor
Owen Sound: Leith neighbour, John McKeen, makes a special trip into town to pay his respects. The Thomson family is happy to see him.
Mowat Lodge: Sketch box is shoved far underneath the bed @mowatlodge. It's misplace. Annie will finds it a few days later.
Canoe Lake: Exhumation tonight: The undertaker enlisted by @WinnieTrainor is on his way to Canoe Lake.
In 1902 I took a job in Seattle as a photoengraver.
Canoe Lake: The cicadas stop. Silence descends. Everyone is dreadfully anticipating the macabre drama to come this evening
In my youth I had bouts of illness that kept me home from school.
1915 Approaching Snowstorm #tt1915 
The War has given every woman that hangdog look. There is no longer joy in the eyes of anyone.
Huntsville: Undertaker Churchill boards the train with his equipment in the baggage care.
On the train, George Thomson manages to get a Globe from a connecting Toronto passenger. His heart stops when reaches page 5.
It was my feeling that radical art could come from our knowing our country better, not by adopting foreign influences.
The cicadas are buzzing loudly. It's a chorus or cacophony. No difference. No one pays attentin.
No direct route from OS to Canoe Lake: Inglewood, Allandale , Scotia Junction. Another exhausting train journey for George Thomson.
In 1915 I had to adapt to Toronto - I would go out when only necessary during daytime and exercise by walking at night.
I like decorative form - decorative panels are another matter
1914 Burnt Country, Evening #tt1914 
The recent railway regulations on the transport of bodies gives Undertaker Churchill some new options for deception.
Undertaker FW Churchill prepares for a long day. He's negotiated a handsome fee for the exhumation at Canoe Lake.
Sprucedale was the economic centre for the area west of the Park.
Geo. Rowe and L. Dickson count the night train whistles. Troop train, lumber train, tourist train. One pensive wail after another
A moment is a hard thing to capture.
Poem by William Wilfred Campbell
And love laughs down the desolate dusks of death.
Sweet hope, eternal, holds the human heart,
But over ill and dread and doubt's fell dart,
The tidal shores where ebbs our fleeting breath:
The distant deeps to which our hopings go,
Not unto endless dark. We may not know
Of God's far-off red flame of love's renown.
Eternity but night in some vast day
Death's doubt is kernelled in each prayer we pray.
And jewels with hope her murkiest shades that frown.
Night, prophet of morning, wears her starry crown,
Yet my fond heart would throb eternal nay.
Though all the wisdom of wide earth said yea,
Not unto endless dark do we go down,
Only a thin sliver of a moon. A failing light. Two nights from now will be the New Moon and the darkest night ever on Canoe Lake.
A quiet lapping of night waters on the rocks. A silent rise and fall of a corpse in water. 
The only way to be economical is to keep going with what you have.