Since then, this press club has had outings to different parts of Canada every three years—until the Great War broke out—when they were discontinued, but renewed again in 1920 with Montreal as the meeting place, and a delightful visit to Quebec, Ste. Anne de Beaupre and Ottawa, and in 1923 they threaten to invade Vancouver and Victoria. These triennial outings have been very enjoyable and I always came home with a gold-headed umbrella or a swagger valise or hand bag or gold sleeve links and other jewelry, and I firmly believe that if the trips had been made annually instead of triennially, I would have been able to start up a second-hand departmental store with the untaxed luxuries I lugged home. The club has prospered amazingly, notwithstanding my association with it, and its membership has increased from 16 to more than 350. * * * * * Amongst the charter members were some writers of note: “Kit” of the _Mail_, the first president (Mrs. Coleman) and “Francoise” of her own paper (Miss Barry) have passed to the Great Beyond—God rest their souls—and other distinguished writers were “Mary Markwell” (Mrs. Kate Simpson Hayes); “Happiness”, as we called her, (now Mrs. Jerry Snider of Toronto); Irene Love of London, Ont. (now Mrs. Eldred Archibald), who, under the nom de plume, Margaret Currie, daily enlightens the readers of the Montreal _Star_ with words of advice and wisdom; Katherine Hughes, who is now trying to free Ireland with that distinguished person of Spanish parentage and born in the United States, de Valera; Miss Alice Asselin, of _Le Nationalist_; Mrs. Balmer Watt, of Brantford, now of Edmonton; Miss Gerin-Lajoie; Miss Plouffe; Miss Laberge; Miss Madeleine Gleason; Miss Marie Beaupré (Helene Dumont) of _La Presse_; Miss Valois of Ottawa and of course Miggsy (Mrs. Albert Horton, of Ottawa) who was the originator of the trip which led to the formation of the club. With “Kit” in St. Louis. At St. Louis, impressionable Kit accompanied me to a reproduction of the Passion Play of Oberammergau, and in one scene I heard “Kit” sobbing. “What’s the matter with you, Kit?” I sympathetically whispered. “Oh, see our blessed Saviour; they’re crucifying him,” she tearfully replied. “Well, let’s get out of here,” and I hustled her to an adjoining performance where an Irish-Australian songstress was energetically singing, “The Wearing of the Green,” as we were seated. And Kit, her face wreathed in smiles, was vigorously keeping time with the tune by patting the floor with her foot. What a difference a few minutes makes.