One morning nearly forty years ago, the writer wandered eastward toward
Red River, from Main Street, down what is now called Lombard Street.
Here not far from the bank of the Red River, stood a wooden house, then
of the better class, but now left far behind by the brick and stone and
steel structures of modern Winnipeg.

The house still stands a stained and battered memorial of a past
generation. But on this October morning, of an Indian summer day, the
air was so soft, that it seemed to smell wooingly here, and through the
gentle haze, was to be seen sitting on his verandah, the patriarch of
the village, who was as well the genius of the place.

The old man had a fine gray head with the locks very thin, and with his
form, not tall but broad and comfortable to look upon, he occupied an
easy chair.

The writer was then quite a young man fresh from College, and with a
simple introduction, after the easy manner of Western Canada, proceeded
to hear the story of old Andrew McDermott, the patriarch of Winnipeg.

"Yes," said Mr. McDermott, "I was among those of the first year of Lord
Selkirk's immigrants. We landed from the Old Country, at York Factory,
on Hudson Bay. The first immigrants reached the banks of the Red River
in the year 1812.

"I am a native of Ireland and embarked with Owen Keveny--a bright
Hibernian--a clever writer, and speaker, who, poor fellow, was killed by
the rival Fur Company, and whose murderer, De Reinhard, was tried at
Quebec. Of course the greater number of Lord Selkirk's settlers were