Time and again, when collecting the material for these sketches, I was amazed by statements showing how great a transformation had occurred in the life of two generations, and even of one generation. I cannot, however, recall an instance in which I was more impressed in this way than when in the vicinity of Stratford in 1918. In the morning of a June day I called on the Honourable Nelson Monteith, within four miles of the city, and he told me that his father had been treed by wolves on the road over which I had passed amid farms on which there were hardly enough trees to shelter a squirrel. I was still more surprised, later on in that same day, when I met one who remembered when Stratford itself was scarcely a wayside village. This was George McCallum, of North Easthope.
"When I first came here," Mr. McCallum said, "Stratford consisted of a dozen houses, two taverns and a flour-mill. Almost the entire country surrounding the future city was covered with bush; and real bush it was. On our own