Matheson Cemetery

But living memories now are getting old.

So sitting here, above the little town,

I’ll tell a tale, and here I’ll write it down.

 

The families came and settled east of here,

And worked real hard their chosen land to clear,

The Littles and the Elvins came to stay –

Three generations, come to work and play.

 

In Beatty township, soon the axes rang.

At evening fiddles played, and people sang.

With clearing of the bush well under way

The stump piles now made room for drying hay.

 

But someone to the west was burning slash.

July, when everything could turn to ash!

And on the twenty-ninth the smoke rolled in,

That, followed by a roaring crackling din.

 

With suddenness that one could scarce believe,

The Littles and the Elvins had to leave.

No time for any preparations now,

Just run, and try to save themselves somehow.

 

The Robinsons, the Littles and the Smalls,

The Boyds, and Schmidts, and Taylors young and old,

With the Elvins, there were twenty-nine all told,

All grouped together as the black smoke rolled.

 

Black River – it was much too far away.

Six miles to west, and the west wind blew that day.

They had one hope, and that was Leach’s Lake,

And that then was the route they had to take.

 

‘Twas such a little way they had to go,

But little children made their progress slow,

For some were carried, some were dragged along –

They were indeed a sad beleaguered throng.

And though they hurried south with frantic speed,

The fire came faster still with hungry greed,

And flying embers, smoke, and searing heat

Were soon to put a stop to racing feet.

 

Their final minutes we can only guess,

With helpless children adding to distress.

What desperation in their will to live,

As children scream for help they cannot give.

 

And when the fire had passed, more land to strafe,

The searchers came, and hoped to find them safe,

But they had died – they all had died but one,

Their bloated bodies lying in the sun.

 

George Little – he survived that day so wild.

Just in his twenties, running with a child,

On seeing that Leach’s Lake could not be reached, 

He ran and jumped into Painkiller Creek.

 

But in his arms, the child he carried died,

And who would blame George Little if he cried,

Knowing that on the trail his loved ones lay – 

His body scarred for life that dreadful day.

 

There are no houses on these farms today,

But wandering ‘round I see new crops of hay.

Seen from the road the lake’s a gravel pit – 

A quiet spot to reminisce a bit.

 

And after all these years we miss them yet.

With no relations, how can one forget?

Here on a hill just west of town they lie,

With just one date to mark their passing cry.

 

          Frank Holley - 1973

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Frank Holley married George Little's daughter, Evelyn. In a letter dated September 5, 2007, Frank Holley wrote to fellow researcher and Boyd descendant, Bill Boyd, that Evelyn had been unaware that any descendants of Jane Little and Ezra Boyd had survived. In fact, the only children of theirs who did survive that day were their eldest son, Ward, and their daughter, Ruby Jane. Ward was at Base Borden doing basic training and Ruby Jane (known as Jennie) was working as a domestic at the time in Bracebridge.