The sketches in this volume are now published for the first time. They were left to me by Emily Carr as part of the contents of a large box or trunk. The trunk contained a great many letters, a number of sketch books, several single sketches in oil and water colour, account books, Emily’s journals, a number of manuscripts, and a great many miscellaneous personal items. In a letter, Emily directed me to dispose…

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I shall call this story “Mother” because it’s all about Father. What Father did and said was the only thing that mattered to Mother. I wish I had known Mother before she was Mrs. Father. I cannot ever imagine her as Mrs. Mother because she died two years before Father, so we never knew her apart from him. An Auntie, who was not an aunt all all, cam e out from England a bride…

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My monkey’s calls were strange and varied. Each had special significance; each seemed to come from a different part of her—high-pitched whoop of pleasure, deep stomachy grunt of anger, coo of contentment, grating croak of alarm, chirrup of inquiry. For me alone she kept an affectionate lip-gibber, interwoven with a kissing sound and always accompanied by a grin. If I caught her in mischief she went through a series of swayings, writhings, and apologetic…

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