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.

      I miss Fanny, Willie realized. Normally, her panting black body would be lying beside him, her pink tongue lolling out of her mouth, her tail thumping happily every time her young master spoke or patted her shaggy head. “I miss Fan,” he half-whispered aloud.

      Again the crow cawed. A grey squirrel scampered up a nearby maple. Willie looked once more into the pattern of the branches and the sky. Mesmerized, his mind slipped into wondering and dreaming.

      What purpose does the Creator have for me? I am sure it is to do good, to be as good a man as my father, to be as great a man as my grandfather. I feel I am meant to help others less fortunate than me, but I do not yet know how. Father, in his talks, has begun to prepare me for university. Mother too, is encouraging me. What, what shall I be?

      “Do you know?” he asked out loud to the saucy squirrel, which had curiously come near him. The squirrel churred, flicked its tail in alarm, and scurried back to its tree. Willie laughed.

      “I didn’t think you knew any better than I,” he said and returned to his silent reverie. Would he be a lawyer like Papa? His father had recently been appointed a Queen s Counsel. Law seemed a noble profession. Or a minister? That way he would help people and please God. Or would he enter a life of public service? He often thought he would be a politician like Grandfather and maybe, maybe even one day return to Woodside, beloved Woodside, and purchase it. The reward after a life of helping others. Perhaps, perhaps… and his dreams became fuzzy, golden and warm.