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‘ nds. The number is staggering. They never ave a visitor. These lists are used by churches d organizations as well as individuals as a ‘asis for “adopting” folk for birthday, when a ard is sent or perhaps a small gift. I wish you ould read some of the "Thank You" notes ' d by donors. There are numerous areas for volunteers. here are patients who are being rehabilitated it what are called foster homes â€" perhaps as any as five or six in a home. Some of these ill eventually go to their own homes; others ave no home where they are wanted. so are ‘lifers" so to speak. They are visited by folk in he community. The library in the hospital has a cart which is taken around to the wards daily. We have volunteers helping the official li- brarian. The official patients‘ newspaper, “News and ‘Views" is arranged and assembled partly by patients, partly by volunteer help. Both draw- ings and articles are principally done by patients. I just wish you could see the change of expression on the faces of the patients when a visitor they have come to know arrives on the scene. This leads me to add a point which we feel is vital. If we promise to go regularly. once a month or once a week, we must fulfil that promise. The patients are ready and wait- ing for us to arrive. Disappointment could, I suppose, in some cases retard progress; so we feel this is a must. We must be there. or see that someone else is, if we cannot make it ourselves. In! (D * * * DYING EMCBERS By Ruth Dingwall McArthur When I was very very young (Ah! many years ago) I dreamed that men of ev'ry tongue My name should praise and know; For I would remedy the ills Of all the human race, And order bring unto the hills, And set the stats in place. And then at a much later time, (Still many years ago) I dreamed that men of every clime My children's names should know: And so I strove and prayed and wrought To rear them strong and true For they must do, the thing I'd thought, And somehow failed, to do. And now that I am very old, (Life, thou art nearly done) It frets me not whose name is told, \Vhose praise on ev’ry tongue, And I am well content I ween (For Oh! how quick I tire) If I can sweep my own hearth clean And tend my own small fire. * t * FALL 1961 New Institute Named For A Song By Mrs. D. McKibbon N THE EVENING of April 26, 1961, Mrs. H. A. Dickenson of Mount Hope, 1 Regional Director for South Wentworth. Invited a group of ladies from our community into her home for the purpose of forming a new Women‘s Institute. We chose the name "Maggie Johnson" for our group because of the historical connection with our district. In our picturesque commu- nity stands a beautiful white stone house, the girlhood home of Maggie Clark Johnson for whom were written the lovely words of the old song. "When You and I Were Young Maggie.” The following information was gleaned from a Scrap book which is kept in the home by the present owners, Mr. and Mrs. Lorne Johnston: "Maggie Clark, heroine of the song. was fair with ringlets that shone like spun gold in the sun. She was the belle of the community. George Washington Johnson, who wrote the words of the song, was born in nearby Bin- brook. He was a graduate of the University of Toronto. He was twentyâ€"one and very hand- some with dark curly hair, when he came to Glanford 5.5. No. 5 to teach and Maggie Clark was one of his pupils." It was not long before teacher and pupil found they were in lOve. Often they would walk along the banks of the neighboring stream to the Old Mill. It was and still is a very romantic spot although the mill is gone now. It was here that George Johnson got the inspiraâ€" tion to write a book of verse, “Maple Leaves.“ It was written as a token of the promise he made to his betrothed that his devotion to her would never change. Shortly after the song was written the young lovers were separated to further their education. In 1864 they were married even though Maggie was in poor health as she had what is known toâ€"day as tuberculosis. In those days there was no hope of cure. Their time together was short but filled with happiness. Maggie Johnson passed away suddenly on May 12, 1865 at the age of 23. They were living in Cleveland at the time and her grief-stricken lover brought her body back to be buried in White Church Cemetery near Mount Hope. Heartbroken, George Johnson returned to Canada. The year after Maggie’s death he had the song set to music by J. A. Butterfield of Detroit. When George Johnson retired from the teaching profession, at the time being professor of languages at the University of Toronto, be moved to California where he died in 1917, more than half a century after the grievous loss of his wife. His remains were brought back to Hamilton and laid to rest in Hamilton 23