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won’t happen again.”
    Nor did it. From this time forward, Angus did almost everything he could to help me on my chosen way. (Almost, but that comes later.)
    The first thing he did was to take me back to his office and give me a page torn from the American
Saturday Review of Literature
. It dealt with literary agencies in New York and especially sang the praises of one called Littauer and Wilkinson that specialized in finding markets for new writers breaking new ground.
    “The hell with
Maclean’s –
big frog in a little pond,” my father said. “Send your Eskimo piece off to these people. What have you got to lose?”
    It was a
very
long shot, but on the last day of November
Eskimo Spring
was in the mail again.
    December of 1949 was as dour a month as any I have endured. The snows came early and fell heavily. Nevertheless, almost everyday I made an attempt to get to the post office. There seldom was any mail, and nothing from New York – not even an acknowledgement of my submission. Nor was there anything from Boston – no ray of light anywhere.
    We were now so hard up that I was debating with myself whether to ask my parents for a loan. As the snowdrifts mounted and our woodpile shrank, so did my hopes of making it at the writing game. I became seriously depressed – so much so that I even gave up the long walks on snowshoes Fran and I had been taking through the swamps and woods and over the wind-whipped hills.
    Then, on December 21, Lulu Belle bucked her way through the drifts to Palgrave and the postmistress handed me an envelope bearing a U.S. stamp.
    The letter it contained was short and sweet.
    Dear Mr. Mowat
,
    I’m glad to tell you that Saturday Evening Post has bought your excellent piece
Eskimo Spring,
which they will publish as
The Desperate People.
They are paying $500.00 of which our agency will take the usual 10%. The cheque will be in the mail this week
.
    We look forward to finding good homes for many more of your pieces
.
    Yours in serendipity
,
    Max Wilkinson

3

A BOOK IS BURN
    W e had a quiet Christmas. Snowfall was so heavy it immobilized even Lulu Belle, and, except on snowshoes, we were unable to go visiting or be visited. I was exhilarated by Max Wilkinson’s coup, but distressed that for a long time I had heard nothing from Atlantic Monthly Press.
    Although Dudley Cloud had initially written that the press was interested in a travel book from me “full of rich anecdotes and personal adventures,” there had been no follow-up.
    The year was coming to an end when I wrote him again.
    Mr. Dudley Cloud                       Dec. 29, 1949
    Editor in Chief
    Atlantic Monthly Press
    Dear Mr. Cloud:
    I have had no word from you about the outline for the arctic
book I sent you. I am a trifle concerned because I want to make a new expedition to the north for more material during the summer of 1950 but financial considerations will prevent me from doing so unless I can obtain some assurance of publication
.
    Mr. Wilkinson of the firm of Littauer and Wilkinson has kindly consented to act as my agent so if my book prospectus appeals to you would you be so very kind as to communicate with Mr. Wilkinson
.
    Best wishes
,
    Farley Mowat
    This time Cloud replied promptly and affirmatively but, rather than accepting my book and offering an advance against royalties (as was the norm), he proposed an option, for which he offered three hundred dollars.
    I was delighted – yet disappointed. An option was no guarantee of commitment and, moreover, that much money would barely cover our ordinary living expenses for two or three months. It was, however, better than nothing so I accepted.
    Cloud then sent me a succinct but definitive outline of what he expected the book to contain, including what amounted to a dissertation on method and purpose. Although smoothly phrased, his letter implied that the author’s role was that of artisan, while the editor was effectively the architect.
    My