O Canada!
Historical Narratives and Biographies That Tell
Her Story
Karla Akins
An Oregon Corporation

Published by BRAMLEY BOOKS
A Division of Knowledge Quest, Inc.
P.O. Box 789
Boring, OR 97009
Written by Karla Akins
Cover Design by Cathi Stevenson
Maps designed by Greg Joens
All photos used are in the public domain
Printed in the United States of America
Copyright © 2011 Knowledge Quest, Inc.
All rights reserved
ISBN # 978-1-932786-45-3
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or other-
wise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior
consent in any form of binding or cover orther than that in which it is published and
without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data
Akins, Karla.
Oh Canada! : historical narratives and biographies that tell her story /
written by Karla Akins
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-932786-45-3
Contents: Jada: Girl of Haida Gwaii -- Bjorn the Lundehund -- The Old
Violin -- Lucy Maud Montgomery -- The Discovery of Insulin by Sir
Frederick Grant Banting -- The Dionne Quintuplets -- Canada’s School on
Wheels -- Canada’s Hero: Terry Fox.
PCN 2011937499

This book is dedicated in loving memory of my precious Grandmother,
Leota Fredericka Pratt,
who kept me knee deep in oatmeal raisin cookies as a kid
while I pounded out stories on an old typewriter perched
atop a wobbly aluminum TV tray table.
Thanks, Grandma. I miss you.
Dear Reader,
The main facts in these stories are true. I have taken liberties
with dialogue and plot details to make them interesting for
young readers.
No one is perfect. Some of the people portrayed in these stories
had character flaws that were not featured in the stories I told.
Instead I focused on their positive qualities and chose to leave it
to the reader’s curiosity to learn more about each person’s foibles
and weaknesses.
I love to hear from my readers. Please e-mail me through my
website: http://KarlaAkins.com.
Happy Reading!
Karla Akins

I have many people to thank for the production of this book. First, all
praise goes to my Father God, my Savior Jesus Christ and the precious
Holy Spirit, Who inspires and teaches me day by day, word by word.
Next, I want to thank my husband, Eddie and my children still at home,
Isaiah and Isaac, for allowing me the time to write. While I’m in my “writ-
ing cave” they’re forced to scrounge for meals and clean clothes on their
own. Their patient longsuffering during my writing hibernation is a huge
I also want to thank my gifted writing buddies (all award-winning authors
themselves) for their invaluable input: Camille Eide, Emily Hendrickson,
Jennifer Kaufeld, Linda Glaz, Cheryl Martin, and Jessica Nelson.
Thanks must also go to my publisher, Terri Johnson, at Bramley Books,
who came up with the idea for this book and trusted me to write it. She is a
dream to work with. Thank-you, Terri!
And to all people who have helped me along the path of my writing career,
but aren’t mentioned because of lack of space or my great absent-minded-
ness, thank-you for your encouragement and for believing in an awkward,
quirky writer. I give you my heart-felt appreciation and thanks.

Jada - Girl of Haida Gwaii
Bjorn the Lundehund
The Old Violin
Lucy Maud Montgomery
Sir Frederick Grant Banting
The Dionne Quintuplets
Canada’s School on Wheels
Terry Fox, Canada’s Hero
About the Author


I sat behind my grandfather, inches from the water, as we paddled
away from his touring boat, The Haanas. Our kayak matched the hue
of the clear, sapphire sky. The water, like a faultless, smooth mirror,
reflected the colours of my red vest and tawny skin.
At the edge of small rocky islands, seals slipped in and out of
silvery marine pools and basked in the sun. Seal pups cried out for their
mothers and wallowed along the brim of the deep. Grandfather pointed to
a pod of humpback whales farther out in the Pacific Ocean. One breached
the water as if to say, “Welcome home, Jada; we have missed you.”
It waved its enormous tail fluke and returned to the shining waters
to protect the calves who swam close to their mothers. The humps of
their backs glinted in the morning sun, and their blow holes sprayed the
Jada: Girl of Haida Gwaii

morning sky with a mist of salutation.
Grandfather and I did not speak. He gestured with his eyes and
hands in the direction of what I needed to see. He pointed at cobalt blue
and scarlet starfish decorating the rocks in the water below, among palm-
sized red rock crabs scuttling through patches of seaweed that looked like
the lettuce in my grandmother’s garden. White-cap limpets, red-turban
snails, and gleaming blue-top snails clung to kelp and rocks. Among
them, giant plumose anemones, sea urchins in violet, crimson and blue,
and mysterious-looking neon nudibranchs lived like a kaleidoscope under
crystal-clear glass.
Grandfather touched my shoulder and pointed far off into the
distance, where Dall’s porpoises swam beside a touring boat while people
stood on the bow taking pictures. I reached for my cell phone and took
pictures of a flock of puffins sitting on rocks not far from our kayak. I
wanted to send the pictures to my parents in Prince George, on the
mainland. My mother’s favourite bird, besides the raven, was the puffin.
One day, while finishing my school report on Canadian history,
my mother walked into my room and said, “You will spend the springtime
and summer with your grandfather.” She spoke to me in her native Haida
tongue, “You need to remember your heritage.”
I grinned and teased my mother, “How can I cross the ocean by
myself? I’m not an Orca; I’m a Haida girl.”
Mother giggled and looked towards Father, who was studying for
Sunday’s sermon.

“Grandfather will come in his float-plane1 and get you. It’s the
only way to the islands of your ancestors.”
This is why I found myself happily paddling behind my
grandfather in a kayak, on the beautiful waters of Haida Gwaii.
Grandfather waited patiently as I took pictures and wrote a text
for my parents. I did not think I would get reception out here, but the
message would be saved in my phone for when I could send it later. After
I finished, we rowed on towards the island of my forefathers. No sound
was heard except the rhythm of our paddles dipping like hot spoons into
Grandmother’s mushroom soup. Beside us, along the banks of a small
island, sea otters yawned and woke from their nighttime sleep. They slid
into the cold, silent water with less sound than the slurps of our paddles. I
stifled a giggle as they played peek-a-boo with their tiny, otter hands and