Ada Florence Kinton Never Turned Her Back On City Life In England But Appreciated The Nature Of The Muskoka District

Birch Hollow Photos by Suzanne Currie

 

ADA KINTON WAS FASCINATED BY THE NATURAL SURROUNDINGS OF FRONTIER ONTARIO

     A preamble to today’s post.

     Today we had a tragedy here in Gravenhurst, not far from our shop, that claimed a life, injured another, and left five families homeless. It is one of many tragic events that happen every year in our neighborhood, which is in fact the whole of Gravenhurst, that makes us realize not only the fragility of human life, but the way in which we all have to embrace misfortune, and come together to foster understanding, and to help the healing process along; even though we are often devastated and so full of anguish for our neighbor citizens, that we jointly wonder about what, at that moment, could be worse. All through the history of our town, and all the communities of Muskoka, we have come together frequently, in order to help friends in dire straits. And as an historian, I can recall so many of these humanitarian gestures, and actions, whether in intimate, face to face embraces, offers of accommodation, replacement clothing, furniture, food provisions, and the compassionate appreciation that life can’t return to an even keel without ongoing considerations that can last years, and still be in need thereafter. What we see as watchers of this community, is a deep and profound activism that is quick to react to these terrible situations, to in a most sincere way, administer help and find the way and means to bring as much comfort to victims as humanly possible. There are those citizens who are critical of what we have here, in community faith and spirit, and will never offer anything more than criticism and obstruction; but they are pushed aside by those who know what to do, and when to get involved, and stay the course, until there is a semblance of recovery. It’s during these dark moments of our town history when tragedy inspires a most amazing blanketing of benevolence, that over-rides all the perceived shortfalls and doom saying that to the few, who never really see the town in the illumination of goodwill. We are witnessing this now, and it is a heartening feeling of togetherness in dealing with crisis and its aftermath.

     I think Ada Florence Kinton would approve of today’s opening. She would have been first to volunteer her services, to help the victims of this tragic fire.

     

By Ted Currie

The toughest day to day challenge for my mother, was to keep me indoors. I would have been outdoors through the night, if Merle hadn't been standing guard. My dad told me she truly slept with one eye open, suspecting I might try a daring, early morning escape. I loved exploring the small ravine, and greenbelt that embraced the sparkling length of Burlington's Ramble Creek, on its way to Lake Ontario. It was a glorious place for a wide-eyed kid, who never suffered from a lack of imagination.

I loved the seasons in that Burlington neighborhood, with its venerable chestnut trees on Torrance Avenue, and the pear and cherry trees on Harris Crescent, next to the market garden. But it was in that ravine, invigorated by explorations into all the magical places a watershed can afford, that reminds me now, of the treks into the woodlands by pioneer artist, Ada Florence Kinton, back in 1883.

When our family moved to Muskoka, in 1966, I carried my enthusiasm for the outdoors deep into the forests and lowlands around our new Bracebridge abode. I couldn't find anything that paralleled the valley of Ramble Creek but I did have so much more acreage to roam freely, in this rural part of the province. The Ramble Creek oasis, a more than worthy childhood haven, was in reality, only a couple of city blocks from Brant Street, the main business corridor. Point is, I grew up with a particularly ravenous appetite for outdoor exploration, and both places of my youth, offered enough adventure to satisfy this curious wanderlust.

As I was preparing for this latest installment, of the biography of Ada Kinton, I couldn't help myself from falling dreamily, helplessly into those wonderful childhood days, learning about nature by immersion. It's what, of nature, inspired Miss Kinton to sketch and paint what she adored about the Ontario wilds. From the busy streets of Victorian England, the hustle and bustle of London, Ada found herself wandering the narrow cartways and forest paths of pioneer Huntsville, in the northern climes of Muskoka. Having recently lost her father to illness, she was brought to Huntsville, by her brothers, Ed and Mackie, both local businessmen. She was later to become a missionary, working with the Salvation Army. But in that emotionally stirring spring of 1883, she spent considerable time pondering the future, and as it was, asking in prayer, what God had in store for her. In the meantime she looked after her nieces and nephews at the Kinton residence. Already an accomplished artist and instructor, in England, she put her experience to work, sketching the flora and fauna of this largely untouched wilderness.

Enjoying this beautiful August season, in Ontario, we have to take a little trip back in years, and season, (are you feeling a little colder?) to revisit Miss Kinton's fascinating journal, the one published following her death, by her sister Sara Randleson. It is now late March in the year 1883.

"Ed (her brother) is better (following the influenza). The doctor comes jingling up the hill in a cutter. It is like a perambulator on light runners. The sleigh proper is a long low box, shallow and close to the ground, and rough; the cutter has a row of bells. The swing from England is very popular today, Boyo (her nephew) repeats. 'Ting giddy,' and Frank's little plump feet in the red socks work vigorously. Sun going down golden again. River all snow, except a dark serpentine twist in the middle. Curious to see the way fields and garden are herring boned all over with the dog tracks, according to the vagaries of the canine mind. Feel sick with neuralgia - went to bed supperless."

She revisits the journal on Good Friday. "Bad night all round. No service - unlike English Good Friday. No noisy bank holiday folks in front of the window to watch. Now 'rows" to the police station. No almond trees in bud or blossom, no women at the corners with baskets of violets and primroses to sell at two pence a bunch. No South Kensington Galleries, and no Art Library to go to and read Ruskin and Longfellow. No paps at Cornwall. Why are things so nice when they are gone? Made a discovery. Can make delicately pretty Easter eggs by etching with common ink. Going to try paint brush tomorrow. (Easter Day) Afternoon, went for a long walk to Vernon Lake. Large clearings leave good vistas of distant hills and the bush and the bay and the lake. Thaw commenced. Snow soft, and melted slightly on surface." Later in the day she pens, "Large party off to tea. Tea table loaded with good things. Big bake on Saturday. The choke-cherry-jelly cake and cookies look so rich and golden, with the blue glass service. My room is quite a picture all the afternoon, when the sun shines. The glare of the snow is so bright that red curtains are always drawn but the light is so radiant that the place looks like a blaze of fire, and the pink roses on the chintz quilt, are like lumps of glowing coals; and as a foil against the rosy wood, big bunches of myrtle-green hemlock and tamarack. The hemlock has a habit of pointing the topmost branch always northward. Saw a squirrel in the woods, and one or two birds tempted out by the mild warm air. No other signs of life yet. Went to church. Large congregation. The Bishop preached eloquent, thoughtful sermons."

Sketching as much with her words, as pencil on paper, she wrote of the weather, "Tuesday, still snow. Mother Earth seems to have freshened-up her ermine robe to last a little longer this spring. Cold looking clouds over the horizon. Couldn't rest last night, so sat up and repeated (verses) of Milton, and gazed out at the bush and the snow-lighted sky, and thought of Milton's stars, 'that in their glimmering orbs did glow,' until sleep came at last. (Next morning) Dreary outside. Spent the chief part of the day down at the office, with my brothers, very quietly. Saw a new phase of the village. The post office and store. Funeral procession of a young man from Fairy Lake passed the window; about 15 sleighs following - chief mourners with large scarfs of some white material tied around the right arm. Mourning suits mottled and varied, none of the intense pomp and gloom of a London funeral. One man had a plug hat, a rare occurrence here."

"Sketched a view of the river disappearing in the bush, and the steamer 'Northern,' still sleeping (iced in at wharf). Not satisfactory. Try to paint instead or chalk tomorrow. Delicious light and shade on the snow all day, as bright and radiant as the petals of a jonquil, all over everywhere. Past six and sun not gone down yet. Imitation rainbow reflection under the bridge. The big bluff edged with faint purple and fringed with russet trees; pale peacock green and rosy sky, shadows delicate, fawn colored, all melting together into a sweet glow. River gradually breaking through the ice."

I think it would have been enchanting, to accompany Ada Kinton on her walks through and around this quickly rising pioneer hamlet. I think she may have enjoyed some of the travels I took, as a young lad, seeking out some of life's beautiful and tranquil places, in the haunted woodlands I was able to wander. As she saw landscapes she wished to paint, I have witnessed scenes I wished only to describe in written sketches. These sojourns in the relative wilds of Ontario, served us both well, I suppose, as dream-filled, wide-eyed adventurers, who endured indoors on the promise of our precious time out-of-doors.

This series of year-long columns, is dedicated to the Gravenhurst Food Bank, operated by the Salvation Army, an organization Ada Kinton supported for most of her young life. She most certainly would have endorsed the food bank program. Please support the food bank program in your own community.

As Ada Kinton celebrated the beauty of the hinterland, please take the time this harvest season, to take in the sights, activities, and special events planned in our regions of this beautiful province.

Ada Kinton, The Painter and Gowan Gillmor, The Archdeacon of Algoma Understood The Natural Environment By Immersion

Birch Hollow Photos by Suzanne Currie

 

THE MUSKOKA WOODLANDS OF THE 1880'S - WHAT THE ARTIST WITNESSED OF AN UNTOUCHED FOREST PLEASE CONSIDER MAKING A FOOD OR CASH DONATION TO THE LOCAL FOOD BANK      Preamble to today’s post.      It is true, just in case you were suspicious about our motives, that from the inception of this new blog-post, being identified as “The Birch Hollow Antique Press,” it was going to have an over-riding theme of nature; specifically, the nature of this region of Ontario. Muskoka. “Birch Hollow,” itself is the pivotal situation, as it is our family’s very great pleasure, to be across the lane here from a most enchanting piece of unspoiled landscape, being that typical Muskoka topography of lowland, bog, marsh, whatever you might believe it to be, with a wrap of tall pines, oaks, birch, cedars and a little this and that of flora and fauna. It has been our lot-in-life since the late 1980’s, and on a tiny budget, we have co-operatively resided here at Birch Hollow, on the knob of land directly opposite. Close enough to hear the tiny winding creek babble away in the night, the loons calling from Muskoka Bay below, and the constant daytime chatter of squirrels leaping from bough to bough, the chipmunks feeding directly below; and oh my, to hear the bird calls and the owl, the venerable old crows on the hydro poles, and the frogs, crickets, and oh how pleasing is the sound of the early autumn wind rushing through the cattails and willowy field grasses that weave together in the graciousness of afternoon sunlight. It does remind me so much, ever day, of my early days in this life, getting soakers and catching minnows in the golden water of Ramble Creek in my old Burlington neighborhood. The hollow of land close enough to Lake Ontario to hear the foghorns of the freighters passing nearby. But it was the natural sounds and universality of the situation that has lasted in memory and experience all these years later.      I am of no boon to the booze sellers, and I have no use for any mood enhancing drugs, that would be wasted on a fellow like me, who can get more than enough pleasure, walking down along this hollow of land across from our portal at Birch Hollow. It is why I am so enthralled by the pioneer work of nature observers such as Ada Florence Kinton, in Huntsville and area, and Archdeacon Gowan Gilmor, of the archdiocese of Algoma, who used to walk hundreds of miles through the Muskoka woodlands in the late 1800’s, to visit isolated settlers to attend their spiritual and health needs. He wrote about nature frequently in his journal, and how important those observations are now, as we are witnessing a most dangerous spurt of urban development in this district of Ontario. I am happy to share these accounts, as they really appeal to both Suzanne and I, as kindred spirits; interested in enjoying and conserving our all important environment, that is facing so many new stresses, and the all encompassing devastation of global warming.      I have had conversations with deniers of global warming, and it is always an infuriating experience; and one I must admit, failing to inspire even the slightest interest in relenting to what they believe is a giant hoax, just like Covid. I feel sorry for the unenlightened. But pleased that there are many more converts each year, who are doing their part to conserve environmental well being. Now in the words of Ada Florence Kinton.        PIONEER MUSKOKA ARTIST, ADA FLORENCE KINTON, WAS ONE OF THE FIRST KEEN AND PATIENT PAINTERS, TO VENTURE INTO THE THICK PRIMAL WOODS OF NORTH MUSKOKA. THAT MAY NOT SEEM PARTICULARLY IMPORTANT, BUT THERE ARE FEW PUBLISHED OBSERVATIONS, AS POIGNANT, AND COLORFUL, FOR HISTORIANS TO MULL OVER. MANY OBSERVATIONS PUBLISHED FROM THIS PERIOD, AS PENNED BY OTHERS, ARE NOT AS DETAILED ABOUT THE COLORS AND TEXTURES OF FLORA AND FAUNA, AND THE WILDLIFE ENCOUNTERED. EVEN HER DESCRIPTIONS OF THE PIONEER BUILDINGS, OF THE TINY COMMUNITY, GIVE HISTORIANS A RARE INSIGHT ABOUT THE LIFE AND TIMES OF THE LATE 1800'S. SHE WROTE IN HER JOURNAL, MUCH THE SAME AS SHE WOULD HAVE, IF ILLUSTRATING THE SAME SCENE WITH BRUSH AND PAINT INSTEAD. ADA KINTON, NEWLY SITUATED IN THE PIONEER VILLAGE OF HUNTSVILLE, PROVIDED MANY SIMILAR OBSERVATIONS, ABOUT THE BUILDINGS AND LANDSCAPE AROUND THE KINTON FAMILY HOME. HAVING JUST ARRIVED FROM ENGLAND, AFTER AN HORRENDOUS STEAMSHIP CROSSING OF THE ATLANTIC OCEAN, AND BITTERLY COLD AND EXHAUSTING TRIP BY SLEIGH NORTH TO HUNTSVILLE, ADA FOUND CURIOUS SOLACE IN THE PICTURESQUE NATURE OF MUSKOKA, FROM THE SOUTHERN BOUNDARY TO THE NORTH; DURING THE DAY TIME, AND THE LONG WINTER EVENINGS, SHE FOUND THE VISTA FASCINATING.   ADA FLORENCE KINTON CAPTURED THE ESSENCE OF PIONEER LIVING IN CANADA By Ted Currie As hard as I might try, looking out at the beautiful ferns and wildflowers of The Bog, this bright June morning, I simply can't arrive at any creative parallel, as a wordsmith, to the descriptions once penned by Ada Florence Kinton, detailing so poignantly, the Muskoka she witnessed, in the 1880's. Ada wrote as if she was painting a unique, fantastic scene that she wanted us to experience for ourselves. Her descriptions were clever manipulations of the senses, and when she wrote her impressions of the wind and spiraling snowfall, it is very much the case you begin feeling the chill air, and detect a faint, nostalgic scent of woodsmoke from the kitchen stove. Where we might be huddled to watch the final toll of spring storm upon the landscape. Her journal affords the reader the liberties of smelling freshly baked bread, and the imagined taste of maple syrup and fresh butter, upon a fluffy stack of hot pancakes. It's what writer's aspire to do, for their readers. While I fail to do justice to the same, this untrained writer-kind, created a landmark journal I have come to cherish, for its brilliant illumination of even the dullest, most threatening winter day. Inspiring the watcher to celebrate each moment of each day, and enjoy the dynamics of the world in which we dwell. As you are sitting on the patio, or in a quaint little restaurant courtyard, lounging on the back deck, or sitting out on the dock listening to the loons, if you're feeling a tad warm and would like a wee chill to the air, I've got a story that will take you back to March. March 1883 actually. Huntsville, Ontario. And we will meet up with artist Ada Florence Kinton, in this latest installment of the multi-column series. It's nice to read about March from the comforts of July. The pioneer artist, who had only recently arrived in Canada, after the death, in England, of her father (her mother had died some years earlier) Ada took up temporary residence with her brother's family in the pioneer hamlet of Huntsville, situated in the northern climes of the District of Muskoka. The painter, who would later become a well known and respected missionary with the Salvation Army, and both writer and illustrator for the "War Cry," publication, took many forays into the thick woodlands surrounding the settlement, to sketch the flora and fauna, and the wildlife she encountered. We resume her journal on March 12th, 1883. "Second day of Wiggin's Storm. Seven a.m. Bright, soft, light morning. Pale, thin blue mists creeping up the hillside, veiling the trees halfway up in horizontal lines, and the smoke from the village chimneys crossing at right angles in steady, perpendicular streaks. Multitudes of downey oblique clouds covering the sweet azure sky, only leaving little peeps here and there, and icy river mottled with snow and shot with yellow and purple and blue, but very delicately, and all over a general pearly atmospheric effect, tender and soft." "March 17th. More snow in the night over forest and river. Sun rising cloudily with subdued light above Conn's bluff. Concert at the grist mill last night," writes Miss Kinton. "Nine-thirty p.m. Silent night, but in the night no black darkness like in England; only deep twilight, the snowflakes descending softly, gently, lovingly on the pale untrodden snow, shadowless and windswept, and around and above only the white mist of the coming flakes as they fall between here and the quiet mountain and the bush, and the distant shore of the lake. All encircling the house in a faint, mild, neutral, grey dome, and a sort of patterning swish on the window, and a murmuring wind blustering against the house, and a rush in the stove pipe - the meeting of the draught from the stove, and the wind. And a glimpse down the hill of the ice-prisoned river." She writes, "Eleven-thirty p.m. It is getting stormier. Now the lights are all going out in the village, and all the fences around the place and the bits of shrub and rosebush are the only signs of past summer to be seen, standing out sharp and dark against the whitening ground; and the winds begin to howl and wail. Everyone's to bed but me, and there's nothing to be heard but the winds and the tick of the clock and the sound of burning wood. Boxer (the dog) is enfolded in a deep snoreless sleep, the sleep of a dog who has patiently borne to be pummeled and squeezed all day, to have his tail hung on to by two babies and his wavy hair hugged by a third. A rest deserving dog - and so he sleeps in peace. Sunday morning. Not Sunday morning at home (England). with prayer-meeting at seven o'clock, over the water and through the fog; but Sunday morning in Muskoka, Canada, with breakfast at ten and bright fragrant daylight. One relishes daylight here after the valley of the Thames. The morning is sweet. Sometimes she gets up blue, and sometimes she gets up saffron. But I think I like her best when she gets up grey, like this one today, sunny grey, cloudy grey, golden grey." "Eight-thirty. Mail from Paris and letter from Mrs. "W." Attempt to blowup houses of Parliament by dynamite (England). The children have had a little sleigh given to them by Johnnie Ecclestone, a little hand-sleigh that they drag over the carpet with great delight, and quarrel about, and tumble off in sweet content. It has been a dazzlingly brilliant day. The sun is sinking low now, and the shadows of the village are stretching out and undulating over the easily curving sides of land across the river. There are some cows down at Mr. Hooie's and sheep, and the sunbeams are so golden that the brown cows look like wall flowers and the shed like clover blossoms. The shadows are so blue and pure and delicate, and the earth has no tone taint of dust in sight; all spotless and clean. Boyo has just washed the window with a big crust of new baked bread dipped in my tea. My sunset view, of course, is rather blurred. Went for a Wordsworth, (quiet contemplation) and had a few minutes sweet peace in the rocking chair after the babies went to rest before supper. Ed suffering from an epidemic influenza, quite a sickness. Had a lovely walk in the village. The moonlight and the frosty snow make it a sort of fairy daylight, rather than night, and at every fresh footstep 10,000 little lights twinkle and tremble before you, and the trodden snow shrieks like a tin whistle." Ada Kinton wrote in her journal, as she sketched what surrounded her. She was astute to the details of the pioneer settlement, the weather, and the appearance of the woodlands in this final intrusion of the winter seasons. Of many pioneer journals, describing this region of Ontario, Miss Kinton's is the most detailed and sensitive, and it isn't a stretch whatsoever, even as you sit on the dock listening to waves lapping against the shore, to imagine the setting surrounding that 1880's Huntsville homestead. She was keenly aware of her environs, and she sketched the scene with carefully, thoughtfully chosen words, so that we might be able to visualize what it was like then, isolated in the Ontario wilds. Ada Kinton matured into an accomplished artist and art instructor, and after a lengthy missionary service abroad, she thoroughly immersed herself in art and writing with the Salvation Army's publication, "The War Cry." Shortly before her death, just after the turn of the century, she had returned to the Huntsville home of her brother, where she again liked to watch the comings and goings of her cherished 'little town." The journal of Ada Florence Kinton will continue in the next blog. The multi-column series is dedicated to the Gravenhurst Food Bank, as operated by the Salvation Army, a program the artist-missionary would have approved.

Ada Florence Kinton Explored The Early Spring Woodlands of Huntsville, Circa 1880's

 THE PEACE OF THE SNOWY WOODS - ADA KINTON WAS THE FIRST WRITER TO PROFILE THE LANDSCAPE AS BOTH HAUNTING AND ENCHANTED

A BEGINNING OF CAPTURED FOLK LORE IN THE MOST INNOCENT WAY

     Preamble to today’s post.

     The irony of it all. Since noon today, Andrew, Suzanne and I have been working in our Gravenhurst shop, straightening out our displays from the harrowing experiences of the past week. We have been busier than we ever could have imagined, when we re-opened in June after the Covid lockdown had been modified. We don’t open the shop on Sundays, because it is our “recovery day” and seeing as we don’t have a surplus of staff, or any staff other than four shop owners, it really is a necessary hiatus period to get us ready for the coming six days of commerce. But the irony here, is that today’s story is about Ada Florence Kinton, visiting Huntsville, Muskoka, in the winter and early spring circa early 1880’s, and today it was so hot here in urban Gravenhurst, that we very much enjoyed the private sanctuary of our air conditioned old theatre building. Sure, there was work, but it was enjoyable under the circumstances, especially for our two old dogs, Muffin and Pooh Bear that don’t get along well with humidity here at Birch Hollow. I originally penned the following story about Ada Kinton, as part of a fundraiser for the Gravenhurst Salvation Army’s Food Bank, during their annual Christmas Drive quite a few years back. So you may feel a little chill associated with this article, but hopefully not too much to remove you from the human warmth that was Ada Kinton’s life. Please enjoy.

     IMAGINE IF YOU CAN, WHAT MUSKOKA WOULD HAVE LOOKED LIKE, IN THE 1880'S. THINK ABOUT THE YOUNG BRITISH ARTIST, ARRIVING HERE, FROM BUSTLING, CROWDED LONDON, ENGLAND, IN THE GRIP OF A CANADIAN WINTER. NOT HAVING HAD MUCH TO DO WITH A SEVERE WINTER SEASON, OR A BUSH-LAND ENCRUSTED WITH ICE AND SNOW, GLISTENING IN THE DECEMBER MOONLIGHT, ADA KINTON DID WELL TO WRITE ABOUT HER NEW ENVIRONS WITH OPTIMISM......THOUGH THOSE FIRST FEW WEEKS CHALLENGED HER SENSIBILITIES. WHY HAD SHE AGREED TO COME TO THIS FROZEN WASTELAND? WHY HAD SHE LEFT THE CITY AND COUNTRY OF HER BIRTH.....THE URBAN SPACES SHE HAD BEEN COMFORTABLE, AS A CHILD? AND THEN AS AN ART TEACHER, FOR SEVERAL PRIVATE ACADEMIES, WHERE HER TALENTS WERE BEING FULLY UTILIZED? SHE CONFESSED, THAT AT THE TIME, FOLLOWING THE SUDDEN DEATH OF HER FATHER, THE INVITATION OF HER BROTHERS, ED AND MACKIE, (ALREADY AMONGST THE FOUNDERS OF THE MUSKOKA HAMLET, OF HUNTSVILLE), SEEMED PROVIDENTIAL.....AS IF SHE NEEDED TO REMOVE HERSELF, FOR A TIME, FROM THE SADNESS AT HOME. SHE CAME TO FEEL, ON THE STORMY TRAVERSE OF THE NORTH ATLANTIC, IT WOULD BE THE PERFECT TIME TO RETREAT AND RE-THINK HER FUTURE PLANS. THERE WERE NEICES AND NEPHEWS TO LOOK AFTER, AT THESE PIONEER HOMESTEADS, SO SHE WOULD EARN HER KEEP, AS THEIR TEMPORARY NANNY. AS SHE WAS GOOD WITH CHILDREN, IT SEEMED A PERFECT TIME TO TRAVEL AND SEEK PERSONAL ADVENTURE, BEFORE SETTLING DOWN TO A PERMANENT PROFESSION.

     SHE WOULD FIND SOLACE IN THESE SNOW-LADEN FORESTS OF NORTH MUSKOKA, AND THEY INSPIRED HER TO WRITE AND PAINT; AND EXPLORE THE DIVERSE, HILL AND VALLEY LANDSCAPE, SHE WOULD EVENTUALLY COME TO ADORE. SO MUCH IN FACT, THAT SHE CHOSE HUNTSVILLE, TO SPEND HER FINAL DAYS AND HOURS, LOOKING OUT OVER THE SMALL BUT THRIVING SETTLEMENT; THE STRUGGLING HAMLET, MIRED THEN IN SNOW, SHE HAD VISITED FIRST, YEARS EARLIER; WHEN THERE WERE FEWER BUILDINGS, AND RESIDENCES; AND A MUCH SMALLER POPULATION. ADA KINTON LOVED ANY OPPORTUNITY TO GET OUTSIDE, TO EXPLORE THE SMALL COMMUNITY, ESPECIALLY THE SURROUNDING COUNTRYSIDE, THAT FASCINATED THE ARTIST WITHIN. SHE FELT SOME SENSE OF URGENCY, TO SKETCH THE FORESTS AND LOWLANDS, BEFORE THE CLEAR-CUTTING OF TIMBER THAT WAS BUZZING AROUND THE HAMLET. SHE WOULD WALK SOUTH TOWARD PORT SYDNEY, TO FIND THE RIGHT SCENE TO SKETCH; AND INEVITABLY, WHILE THERE, FOUND COMPANY WITH THE RESIDENT WILDLIFE; BIRDS AND SQUIRRELS NOT THREATENED BY HER INTRUSION. THEY WOULD SOON EAT OUT OF HER OUTSTRETCHED HANDS.

     I CAN IMAGINE THE WONDERLAND SCENE, CAPTURED IN THE WORDS PENNED INTO HER DIARY, DEPICTING THE EVENT OF WINTER RECREATION.....THE IMAGE OF HER PLAYING IN THE NEWLY FALLEN SNOW, WITH HER BROTHER'S CHILDREN; ROLLING AND SLIDING DOWN THE SPARKLING HILLSIDE, LAUGHTER, AND THEIR COMPANION SILHOUETTES, FULL OF VIGOROUS CONTENTMENT, LONG INTO THE SHADOWS OF THE AFTERNOON SUN; MAKING CONVENIENT PLAYMATES OUT OF THE THIN, COLD AIR OF A MUSKOKA WINTER. HOW BRACING THE CLIMATE, BUT HOW NICE TO RETREAT INDOORS, TO THE WARMTH OF THE STOKED-UP WOODSTOVE, BURIED IN THE DARK HOLLOW OF THE SCENTED HOMESTEAD KITCHEN. FIRELIGHT TWINKLING THROUGH THE STOVE'S IRON DOOR. THE DIM, WAVERING LIGHT OF TWO ILLUMINATED OIL LAMPS, STAGING THE SCENE OF GLASS SEALER JARS STACKED, ACCORDING TO SIZE, ON THREE PINE SHELVES, FAR ENOUGH FROM THE STOVE, TO REMAIN COOL TO THE TOUCH. THE SMELL OF WOODSMOKE AND COAL OIL, MIXED WITH THE PERMEATING AROMA, FROM STEW SIMMERING ON THE STOVE-TOP. FROSTED WINDOW PANES IN THE HOUSE, WREATHING THE PANORAMA OF THE SCENE BEYOND, ENHANCED BY THE SUDDEN, SILENT APPEARANCE OF A HORSE-DRAWN SLEIGH, AND DRIVER, ON ONE SIDE VIEW; AND THE MARCH OF SEVERAL BUNDLED-UP CITIZENS DOWN THE HILL, AND ROUND THE CORNER, FRAMED BY THE WINDOW ABOVE THE STOVE. ADA KINTON WOULD SIT BY THE WINDOW IN HER ROOM, AMAZED BY HOW THE SCENE BECAME SO ENCHANTING IN THE WINTER EVENING, WHEN THE HOMESTEAD LIGHTS SHONE THROUGH THOSE SAME FROSTED WINDOWS, AND THE LIGHTS ON SLEIGHS IN PASSING....MADE IT ALL SEEM MAGICAL IN ITS SEASONAL SNOW-SCAPE. NOT CITY-LIKE. THIS IS HOW ADA KINTON SPENT HER FIRST CANADIAN CHRISTMAS...IN THAT HUMBLE, HAPPY KINTON HOMESTEAD IN HUNTSVILLE, ONTARIO.

Ada Florence Kinton

The Artist’s Ontario sketches of 1883

By Ted Currie

“Wrote to Amy (in England). Wonder what is to become of me or what I am going to do in the future. Amy suggests Paris, to paint in the Louvre. Possibly it might be Toronto. Probably London. Hope so! Want to be up and doing.!” But it was the Village of Huntsville that became the most influential stop for the young artist. The place she wanted to spend the final moments of her storied life.

One hundred and twenty-eight years ago. This was the spring Ada Florence Kinton began her sketching trips, deep into the woodlands surrounding the pioneer village of Huntsville, in the northern climes of the District of Muskoka. Knowing the logging interests would soon pulverize the hauntingly beautiful forests, she wanted to capture the tranquil, life-full scenes before they were lost forever. She could see the destruction of the clear-cut already banding around the small settlement. The clack of the axe and thud of the felled giants resonated through many parts of Ontario at this time in history.

The young artist, recently transplanted from England, after the death of her father, was unsure what she would do with her life. Ada had been a well respected art instructor, at English schools, but she held some fascination with the work of the Salvation Army. In the year 1883 she spent time with her brothers, Mackie and Ed, both businessmen in the small Muskoka community.

Earlier this morning, I happened to be in Huntsville, on business, and stopped by for a few moments, to see the modest cemetery plot where Ada rests. After many years of dedication to Salvation Army mission work, and an accomplished period of her life as an artist and journalist, for “The War Cry,” she came home to Huntsville, still a young woman, and passed away watching out from the front porch, over the same bustling little town she had sketched almost 20 years earlier. Despite her illness and the pain she endured, Ada found solace and comfort here, just as she had experienced in the spring of 1883. Sketching the colorful, vibrant, enchanted woodlands.

The sunlight brings a cheerfulness to this solemn place, and I think she would have very much enjoyed the early buds of a robust May, and the evidence of soon-to-bloom lilacs. Ada Kinton discovered beauty in places, most of her contemporaries in art, found uninteresting, without any striking contrast of natural colors. She found inspiration watching the smallest life forms, crinkling the dry leaves along a forest path, or in the way a bird found a small puddle the perfect place to bathe. Most of all, she enjoyed watching the people, going about their business and recreation, taking an interest in their village interactions, the fetes, and social recognition of special occasions.

In 1883, Ada Kinton spent four months residing at her brother’s home. After a period of adjustment to rural life, simplified from her days spent in West London, England, she began to explore this area of north Muskoka. An artist of considerable competence and acclaim, she soon found inspiration in the picturesque qualities of the lakeland, increasing her appetite to paint more frequently. Following her father’s sudden death, and the move to Canada, she had found little reason to sketch or paint. The written descriptions of Muskoka, in this pioneer period, afford historians a glimpse of what the forests were like before the cut of the woodsman’s axe. She invites the journal-reader to join the hike along the thin, only partially visible paths, through some of the heaviest forest in the region.

In the text of the book, “Just One Blue Bonnet,” circa 1907, the artist offers these interesting observations. The entries, for the purpose of this column, begin on February 20th, 1883.

“Commenced to stump (stumping is a kind of drawing) Mr. Hooie’s premises. Hope I shall finish it. Snowing slightly all day. All the landscape is pure and clean.’ February 28th. “Up before seven. Early morning very nice. Snow sparkling like crushed diamonds for acre upon acre. Walked across two next fields, on top crust of the snow, to fetch some beech from the underbrush; but after going through the surface and floundering around for awhile, in an ungraceful fashion, thought it best to return. March 2. “Bit of dry earth in sight under the window. Troop of Canadian sparrows attracted by the sight. Not much like English sparrows - smaller, rounder, prettier, plump, black and white and brown in a sort of check pattern, with a spot of deep crimson on the head just above the beak. Male birds have pink breasts. Walk along Fairy Lake locks, past Beaver Meadow. Brush scenery entrancingly lovely. Forest primeval, giant trees, bearded with moss and in garments green. Now hoary, frosty bark, lichen covered, red willow, cerulean, and azure, sapphire sky.”

March 7th. “Fresh March wind, north-west. Newly fallen powdering of snow, swirling and coiling and eddying over the old snow, round and round, or resting in billowy drifts. Double play of surface lights, and constant movement. March 9th. Mrs Kinton and I took a walk into the bush along the North Road. Impossible to walk upright and steadily. Great quantity of spruce, cedar, balsam and hemlock - pine rarer - tamarack all clear green. Perky, strictly symmetrical little Christmas trees along the way - fallen trunks, branches covered soft and thick with moss, fungus, lichens on the underneath sides, on the top snow in solid circular or oblong blocks. Might be of marble, the purest marble delicately chiselled and carved - called ‘night caps’ when on stumps. Snags and half fallen trees grotesque and fantastic, gnarled and jagged trunk and boughs - limbs hanging creaking and broken by the wind, or lopped down by the wood cutter and lying on the snow in pathetic, helpless attitudes; tiny twigs and yellow and golden brown chips scattered all around.

“Red willow, smooth twigs, recent year’s growth, crimson red, brown, in the agreeable, dainty, tender, light brown beech, almost like a fairy tree beside the dusky, solemn, silent, towering evergreens, murmuring, creaking, and the summer leaves of the birch dried up and curled, fluttering and graceful, thin as poppy leaves, crisp and with crinkled edges, satiny light on the surfaces. Wonder one does not read of it. Met several sleighs drawn by oxen, with broad backs and self-satisfied air, rough, long-haired and tawny hide, and big rolling eyes. Sleighs, mere boards on runners, close above the snow.”

At times, reading through this journal, I will swear to hearing the wind wheezing through the evergreens, see so clearly the intricacies of the nature she studied, feel the warm breeze of May against my face. Hear the scratch of pencil against paper, as actuality of the scene, becomes a reality of art. Squirrels leap from branch to branch, and the chickadees chatter in the scruffy branches of a nameless bush. The leaves crunching beneath her feet, as she wanders along the path toward home again, looking back for one last memorable glance, on a most beautiful, inspiring place.

The series of  columns, on the life and art of Ada Florence Kinton, is dedicated to the Salvation Army Food Bank, in Gravenhurst, Ontario, a service to help the less fortunate, the artist would have surely approved. Please consider making a contribution to a food bank serving your community.

Ada Kinton As An Artist Made Special Note Of The Living Circumstances In The Pioneer Village of Huntsville Circa. 1880's

 ADA FLORENCE KINTON DEPICTS HUNTSVILLE IN ART

By Ted Currie

     

      A preamble to today’s post.

      Shortly after artist, Salvation Army Missionary, humanitarian Ada Florence Kinton died, and was buried in Huntsville, her sister Sara A. Randleson, had to make a particularly difficult decision. She was in possession of Ada’s personal journal kept  from the 1880’s until a short while before her death in 1904. It had become known to Mrs. Randleson that her sister had indeed led a remarkable life, in so many ways she had not fully known about, that seemed an almost impossible accomplishment in only 37 years of life. She died of consumption which was a major killer at this time in history, but her family believed that she succumbed because of physical exhaustion from her service to the Salvation Army’s efforts to administer to the poor. She had also acted as a governess to the Booth family, which had taken her to a remote region of Australia, where she experienced long periods of heat and exposure to tropical diseases that wore her body’s defenses down. There are some references in the book “Just One Blue Bonnet,” published by Randleson, that make it clear the Kinton family had been actively advising Ada to cut her mission travels down, and that she needed to come home to Huntsville to renew her health. While she understood her physical maladies, and had them confirmed by doctors in the United States, where she was working with the Booths, it never seemed possible to her to abandon the work she was assigned. Ada would regularly postpone her respite in Muskoka, left to another season of the year, until a short while before her death, that she finally had to resign from her posting and seek bed rest.

     What I benefit from, of course, is the decision Sara Randleson made back in 1907, to finance the publication of Ada’s journal, which she probably understood, would never have happened if it had been hers sister’s option. She would have felt it was too intimate and much too honest, in terms of feelings and aspirations, to have in the public domain. And yet, because of this book, and its private republication some years ago, plus the many thousands of readers I’ve reached since the late 1990’s, when I began promoting this under-recognized Muskoka-touched biography, Ada Florence Kinton has become even better known for her benevolent work, than she could have aspired to, I believe, as both a competent artist, in Canada, and a missionary where she worked pretty much anonymously. I do rather believe that Sara Randleson would be pleased to know, that this later years exposure to publicity, to what is an amazingly touching story of personal sacrifice, and humanitarian exceptionalism, has given a new relevance at a critical time in history, to the very great relevance of a kinder, gentler, more inclusive society. It is at this time in history when it appears benevolence is being replaced by rampant insensitivity, and civility, and we see, experience it up close, and hear about incidents of intolerance every day of the rolling year. As Ada Kinton reacted to save a half-frozen newsboy from a near certain death, on the sidewalks of Toronto, before the turn of the 1900’s, it was to her lasting chagrin, that passersby were stepping over the collapsed child, untouched by the unfortunate event. It was her Dickensian moment, and by the vast kindness of her person, she picked up the boy in her arms, and with her tiny frame, managed to pull the boy out of the weather and into a warm shelter; where she administered hot tea until he was successfully restored and safe for a period of time.

     I always have Ada’s book close by on my desk. It’s more likely I would consult its text than any other book, because I know what I can garner in inspiration after only a few paragraphs of her honest life story; so full of sacrifice, yet so enriched by experience and involvement in the spread of compassionate interventions. It is especially relevant at this point, when globally, politically and socially, we are witnessing so much anger, dissent, and mistreatment, in the way we treat one another, when in this reality of a still out-of-control pandemic, economic disadvantage, homelessness, poverty and political upheaval, we should be acting quite the opposite especially on the community and neighborhood level. I am very much attracted to Ada Kinton’s leadership in this regard, and I am, after all these years of our informal relationship, there is still a warm lingering sense of awe, that I possess, realizing how those precious acts of kindness,  can retard and reverse a spiraling crisis of inhumanity that is spreading faster than most of us appreciate. And of course, it should be kept in mind, that because of the work of so many kind souls working at home and abroad to assist the less fortunate, in dire circumstances, there is a beacon of light should society wish to change its course for the betterment of us all. I will keep this published journal, written so long ago by Ada Kinton, in my private stock of my most cherished books, until I depart this mortal coil, in which case, I trust my sons will see that it continues to be given a place of honor in the surviving Currie homestead, at Birch Hollow.

     A talented artist, a competent writer, and devotee of the Salvation Army’s international mission-work, Ada Florence Kinton had a wide choice of vocations when she left England, in 1883, aboard the steamship S.S. Sarmatian. She could have had a lengthy career as an art instructor, with private schools in England or Canada. Ada most certainly could have sold her paintings, or worked professionally in the publishing industry as an illustrator. But she felt her passion for art, was secondary to a heartfelt sense of mission to help others. And she did. From the streets of Toronto to international postings, the poor and destitute always had a friend in Ada Kinton.

After the death of her father, (her mother died when she was 10), a devastating turn in her life, Ada had accepted an invitation from her brothers, Ed and Mackie, to stay with them in the pioneer hamlet of Huntsville, Ontario, where both were well entrenched in the business community. After a dreadful storm-plagued voyage aboard the Sarmatian, and a long and exhausting passage west by rail, north by steamship, cart and sleigh, Ada wrote the following description in a letter, posted to her sister Sara Randleson, at this time still residing in England.

"I am happy to say we have safely arrived at last, after being on the journey, on the cars and in the sleigh, from Tuesday evening until Sunday morning. We have just been two days short of three weeks since we left home (England). I didn’t seem to mind the jolting of the train nearly as much as usual. I suppose it was the dreadful shaking-up we had in the Sarmation in the storm."

The weary traveller writes, "We landed at Halifax on Tuesday, and got straight into a Pullman. There was quite a happy little party of us from the ship, and no strangers; about a half dozen young men and Mrs. Hooper (my cabin-mate) and I. We had the train to ourselves. There was only the Pullman and the mails and the luggage, so it was very cosy and select, and we were quite like brothers and sisters together, after the rough time we had at sea, and we walked about and talked. We stopped at meal-time at different stations, and ate steadily for twenty minutes. At Montreal we changed our cars, and from there to Toronto we met with all sorts of disasters. Amongst other things we got snowed-up, and had to wait patiently till we could be dug-out. That was in fifteen hours. It was breakfast time when we started, and happily we had a dining car attached. Eddy (her brother) teased me so about eating sausages at the rate of twenty-five miles an hour. Then we met a freight train off the track and had to wait for that. Then we heard there was a bad collision ahead of us. That took a long time to clear the track. Two freight trains had run into and over one another."

"Next our tender broke, and we had to wait till we could get a fresh engine. Five hours. Then we got to Gravenhurst, and I had my first sleigh-ride. I suppose I shall never forget it. The horses frisked along like kittens and their long tails and manes waved about so prettily. And oh, the ‘tintinnabulation’ of the bells, and the snow and the forest and the quiet of midnight," wrote the artist-voyeur. "Twenty-six miles’ sleigh-ride from Bracebridge to Huntsville. Supper at a little hotel; everyone silent, mutually afraid to speak. Don’t want to show I’m and Englander. Sleigh again. Almost oppressed with the beauty of the winter forest. Scenery gaunt and fantastic in the twilight. Saw grim, weird forms; wondered if there are any Canadian ghosts. Nice to look up, up, up, by the trunks of the slender, towering trees, and see the pale grey-clouds lighted by the snow beneath. Strange, lovely sleigh-ride, packed tight between Ed and the driver, the stars winking at us; the silent trees, the bush, swamp; Lake  Vernon, Huntsville; home in the distance."

She pens the following about her emotional state, and the adjustment from busy London, to the hamlet scene in the Muskoka wilds of 1883. "Began to feel utterly done-up and began to cry, but had to quit it; could not manage it and struggle through the snow at the same time. Arrived at the gate panting and gasping. Heard my brother Mackie’s voice again. Kissed Kitty; too agitated to sleep; woke at last in my warm cosy wooden room. Struck with the amount of comfort in this little Canadian village in the midst of the bush."

"The four months’ visit to Huntsville (which her diary covers), was spent chiefly in making exquisitely pretty watercolor sketches of the village as it was then," wrote her sister, Sara Randleson, in the accompanying text of the biography, "Ada Florence Kinton, Just One Blue Bonnet." She adds, "These  (sketches) are carefully treasured by Florence’s friends, and will be very valuable if ever Huntsville becomes a city. Considerable attention was also given to baby worship - a new thing for her." Ada joyfully helped out with the children in the Kinton home.

As if painting with words, as she planned out the subjects for her sketch pad, Ada wrote the following brief description of the village scene, as witnessed from the Kinton homestead:

"Cold wind and glare ice, thawed surface of snow frozen over again. Makes walking difficult. Village is very picturesque and quaint in the moonlight, like a lot of miniature toy wooden cottages, chucked down anyhow on the uneven ground, covered over with nice snow and just a light here and there, to make it look pretty; and then all around a dark bordering of great hills fringed with forest; and through the village the river coiling, and under the wooden bridge to the lake, all steely ice except in the middle, where the current is rapid and strong; a dark inky blue bit of stream shows itself in a fitful broken sort of  way. Wonder where all the water lilies have hid themselves?"

Observant and a visionary of her time, she could assess the changes to the scene about to come, and she would take a great interest in the welfare of the forests and wildlife it supported. In future issues, we will travel with Ada Kinton, as she roams back into the woodlands to sketch.......as she notes, before the woodsman’s axe fells what’s left of it.

Ada Kinton Turned Her Back On A Promising Art Career To Become a Salvation Army Missionary

 ADA FLORENCE KINTON BORN IN BATTERSEA ENGLAND

BUT ADORED MUSKOKA-

By Ted Currie

     A preamble to today’s post.

     I was a dirty rotten scoundrel, a bully by any other description, only twice in my life. And the two separate acts on the same victim, represented about five full minutes of my young life thus far; but wee George had to endure the pain for about an hour after my combined misdeeds.

     Ray Green and I were playing with our school chum, George, in the playground of Burlington’s Lakeshore Public School. It was a typical recess in the middle of a Southern Ontario winter, meaning there was just enough snow to create some beds of sliding-ice, but not enough to fully justify heavy boots or snowsuits. We had been warned by all the school officials that we were to stay away from the coal chute at the corner of the building for obvious safety reasons. I don’t know what Ray and I were thinking, or not, when we conned George into his near legendary slide down the chute with our hands on his shoulders to increase the speed of his ride. George was pretty nimble as I remember, and he was able to do a quick turn onto his belly, like the kid on the Santa slide in the movie “Christmas Story,” (George even looked like the kid), and to stop him screaming for the teacher on duty, we hauled him out by his coal black hands. Let’s just say, George got busted first on re-entry to the school, and it wasn’t hard to pick us off as well, considering we had coal dust on our faces and hands. George had his new winter coat, of faux fur I believe, totally destroyed by the coal dust, and his mother was furious with Ray and I for our involvement in the misadventure. We wound up in the principal’s office, Mr. Shantz at that time, and Ray began crying long before he was invited into the waiting room. I was in kind of a daze, and I had never before been in any trouble with the law, in school terms that is, so I didn’t really have any expectation of what trouble I might be in; or if the strap was going to be brought down on my outstretched hand. All I would have been worried about at that time, was the call the principal would make to my mother, because that was the worse case scenario. We all got lucky on this particular day, and the school coughed up the money to have George’s coat professionally cleaned. It seems we got off because the janitorial staff had mistakenly left the chute door open, at a time when students were milling around in close proximity.

     The singular bullying event I took sole ownership of, was when George and I were playing various games one Saturday afternoon in the school playground. For whatever reason, and I have never understood the event in all these years, I approached him with some stealth, and sensing his vulnerability at that precise moment, I punched him as hard as I could in the stomach. It hurt my fist so I know it really stunned poor George, who was doubled over in pain for about ten minutes. He actually started having dry heaves, the impact had been so severe, and I know that for the next hour, I did worry that my physical assault could have serious consequences. I tried to apologize for my punch to the gut, but George would have none of it, and even when I walked him home, he made it clear that our brief friendship was over. It was one thing to be stuffed down a coal chute, but quite another to be physically assaulted for sheer entertainment. I have had that incident on my mind since I was seven years of age, and obviously looking at a life of crime. Actually, it turned out that it was a short-lived period of being a jerk, that I believe saved the rest of my life from punching any one else, or ever again stuffing a victim down a rabbit hole to get a laugh. In fact, by the time I was twelve, I was getting the snot beat out of me just about every day, over one brutal school year, by many raging bullies at Bracebridge Public School. I did get payback for my own misdeeds.

     When I work on biographical and historical research these days, I am most definitely drawn to stories like the journal “Gillmor of Algoma,” the truly inspiring story of Anglican Archdeacon Gowan Gillmor, and his most generous and faithful work in Muskoka to assist the less fortunate and the sick, regardless of how poorly he himself felt at the time; and it never mattered to him if a needy individual was of his flock or not, he never turned his back on someone in greater need. And it often meant that he would give away his winter coat and boots, or any other needed garments, to keep someone else from freezing to death, or in any way, going without. It was quite common to have Gowan Gillmor show up at his charge in Rosseau, without the clothing his congregation had helped finance for his safe travel. Ada Florence Kinton was similar in her own missionary work, and when she joined the Salvation Army, she turned her back willingly on what could have been a brilliantly prosperous art career, as both a painter and an instructor. She preferred instead, to devote her life to assisting others who had greater needs than her own. She died at only thirty-seven years of age, having been physically exhausted by her benevolent work helping those who could not help themselves.

     On my desk for many years now, I have had both Gillmor’s and Ada Kinton’s published journals, put together by those who knew them best, and who genuinely believed that by doing so, their inspiring stories would stir benevolence well into the future. It has certainly been this way for me, and of course, for my research assistant Suzanne, who has worked with me for decades, re-visiting both these biographies for the benefit of our readers. Both Archdeacon Gillmor and Ada Kinton were true to God, and in that devotion, was the sincere desire to help improve society by demonstrating themselves, what greatness can generate from the seeding of kindness and compassion. While I can not say that it was the work of these two missionaries that influenced me to be a better human being, after the “George incident,” (I did reckon with my conscience quite on my own, with, I think, God’s hand resting firmly yet gently on my shoulder), I don’t think it was all that surprising that both of these kindly souls needed access to the rest of my life. I consult them frequently when I’m feeling as if I might again take up arms against the innocent, to embrace the bully ilk once again. The story today of Ada Kinton was composed in the winter season originally, and was part of a fundraising effort we undertook, to assist the Gravenhurst branch of the Salvation Army and their food bank. So this is why there is a winter reference. This is part one of the multi-part series upcoming. I’ll dedicate this one now, to good old George, who I hope has finally forgiven me; although I would understand if he hadn’t. Amazing how such an indiscretion can last a lifetime. 

     This has not been a typical Muskoka winter. At this moment there is a wonderful stream of sunlight coming through my office window, currently being enjoyed by two old cats, sitting on the sill, purring in that gentle, calming harmony. It feels good on my arthritic knuckles, and I apologize for taking this hiatus from typing, to let the warm rays sooth these gnarled hands. While we expect snowfall every other day, here in the lakeland, this year, as last winter, has prevailed with a milder version of Canadian winter. While others across the continent have had brutal weather, ours has been quite kind. So far, of course. Knock wood, things can change.

There has been a wonderful amount of sunshine across our region, and despite some very cold days and wood-snapping temperatures overnight, for anyone who suffers the ill-effects of light deprivation, these past few months have been more cheerfully bright than usual. Today it’s sparkling out over the birch hollow, the diamond light of ice and sun, creates a stark contrast of light and shadow. I think this would be the kind of morning artist Ada Florence Kinton would find compelling and inspirational. She very much enjoyed sunny winter days likes this, wandering along the well trodden paths through the woodlands, to sketch and make notes about the surroundings.

This was in the 1880's, while staying with her family in Huntsville, a picturesque community in North Muskoka.

"Her first experience of picking primroses was a delight to be recorded and unforgotten; and not seldom did it happen that flowers would awaken in her mind ‘thoughts too deep for tears’," This passage was written by Ada’s friend, Agnes Maule Machar, a well known Canadian writer, and was published in the biography, "Just One Blue Bonnet." The book is a compilation of Miss Kinton’s letters and journal entries, released in 1907, two years following her death in Huntsville. The book had been prepared by her sister Sara Randleson, as a lasting memorial to a life well spent.

"Her vivid imagination and playful fancy often prompted her to read into their (flowers) passive life, human feelings and emotions, resulting in graceful little parables which she wrote with as delicate a touch as that which characterizes her drawings, wrote Machar, who frequently corresponded with the artist. "This habit of mind would come out frequently in talk as, for instance, when on a country visit in June, she referred lovingly to a ‘conscientious little lilac,’ which had unfolded its first snowy bloom at an age when such an effort could hardly have been expected of it. That shrub is still distinguished by the epithet which she then bestowed. Of all the many exquisite blossoms which Florence loved and idealized through her large gift of sympathetic imagination, the nearest to her heart were the Passion flower and the pansy - the Passion-flower reminded her of a suffering Saviour, from whom she always drew her deepest inspiration; the pansy for the heart’s ease, which she found only in following him,"wrote Agnes Machar.

"Ada Florence Kinton was born in Battersea, England on April 1^st, 1859, to parents John Louis Kinton and Sarah Curtis Mackie. She would become the third of four surviving children born to the Kintons. John Kinton was an instructor of English literature, at the Westminster Wesleyan Training College. He once said of himself that, ‘Gladly would he learn, and gladly teach’." Florence’s mother died when the youngster was only ten years of age. "How great the sorrow and loss was to this sensitive girl needs not be told. Hence forward I was all the mother she had," wrote her sister Sara Randleson. "The days of childhood and youth sped away all too fast. Study at home, visits to relatives in the lovely Thames Valley, scenery of Maidenhead or on the chalk cliffs of Kent, girlish friendships, and letters from Canada, whither her two brothers emigrated, gave these years their character."

Mrs. Randleson noted that, "In the summer vacation of 1880, we two sisters crossed the Atlantic to visit our brothers in the charming backwoods village of Huntsville. The romance and excitement of this expedition into the new world can not be told. Florence was too taken up with absorbing new impressions to make any record of it, except by a number of pretty pencil sketches of pioneer life."

According to her sister however, another profound event in her young life was about to occur. "The blow of her father’s death, (December 1882) was almost paralyzing. Florence’s health and life, even seemed to hang in the balance, and only the sustaining power of religion helped us endure the severe bereavement. Miss Leonard, an American lady, had lately been holding meetings for the promotion of holiness, which brought great comfort to our hearts. Our eldest brother, Edward, receiving the news by cable, came swiftly to us by sleigh and steamer, the tears freezing on his cheeks in the bitter winter cold. We decided that the home should be broken-up, and he shortly took Florence back with him to Muskoka. This change, while a solemn one, was to afford her a new beginning."

At 24 years of age, Miss Kinton wrote a card to her sister, while having a wretched cross-Atlantic voyage aboard the S.S. Sarmatian. "February 6, 1883. "You will be sorry to hear that we have had a very rough voyage. It is said to have been the stormiest that the Sarmatian has ever had. As soon as we got away from Liverpool, the fun commenced. We had eight lady passengers, and we were all sick in our berths before Thursday dinner-time. The captain told someone that we ‘were just in the nick of time to catch the whole storm.’ Then for about a week we had a real merry time. A storm at sea is certainly a fine sight, particularly to anyone who may be reclining in their cabin. On Sunday there were only three  gentle men to dinner. I won’t try to describe how the rest of us felt. Suffice to say we were knocked down, whacked and banged and battered about until we were just worn out, even after the feeling of deathly nausea had passed away. The universal cry was for rest - just one half hour of dry land."

The artist writes, "For a week I lived mainly on ice. I didn’t grow much fatter. It was greatly amusing to hear the sea coming over the deck and down the stairs and past the cabin door, hissing and seething, fizzing like champagne in a passion. Once the stewardess could not get to me unless she waded knee deep in water through the passage. And the doctor was taking a mustard plaster to a patient, and he fell and dislocated his knee, and a passenger slipped on deck, cut his head open and knocked himself insensible.”

    The next letter however, was composed on February 21, 1883, and was posted from the Town of Huntsville. It contained information about the train and sleigh journey west and north to Muskoka. It presented an unexpected, abrupt arrival at the cross-roads in her life, between mourning for her old life, homesickness, fear of failure, and yet the spark of challenge liberation presented. It would allow the artist to flourish, with a period of solitude yet inspiration, a deep well that would bring her back to Muskoka many times, following world-wide missions with the Salvation Army. It was the place she would choose for her final vigil, due to illness, simply enjoying the view from the porch of her brother’s Huntsville home.