their freight. It is certainly a wonderfully fascinating coast, beautifully green and wooded in the south, and becoming bleaker and barer the farther north one travels. But the bare ruggedness and naked strength of the north have perhaps the deeper appeal. To those who have to sail its waters and wrest a living from the harvest of the sea, this must be a cruel shore, with its dangers from rocks and icebergs and fog, and insufficient lighting and charting.

Apart from the glory of the scenery the journey leaves much to be desired, and the weather, being exceedingly stormy since we left the ice field behind, has added greatly to our trials. The accommodations on the boat are strictly limited, and it is crowded with fishermen going north to the Labrador, and with patients for the Mission Hospital. As they come on in shoals at each harbour the refrain persistently runs through my head, "Will there be beds for all who come?" But the answer, alas, does not fit the poem. Far from there being enough and to spare, I know of two at least of my fellow passengers who took their rest in the hand basins when not otherwise wanted. Tables as beds were a luxury which only the fortunate could secure. Almost the entire space on deck is filled with cargo of every description, from building lumber to live-stock. While the passengers number nearly three hundred, there are seating accommodations on four tiny wooden benches without backs, for a dozen, if packed like sardines. Barrels of flour, kerosene, or molasses provide the rest. Although somewhat hard for a succession of days, these latter are saved from the deadly ill of monotony by the fact that as they are discharged and fresh taken on, such vantage-points have to be secured anew from day to day; and one learns to regard with equanimity if not with thankfulness what the gods please to send.

There are many sad, seasick souls strewn around. If cleanliness be next to godliness, then there is little hope of this steamer making the Kingdom of Heaven. One habit of the men is disgusting; they expectorate freely over everything but the ocean. The cold outside is so intense as to be scarcely endurable, while the closeness of the atmosphere within is less so. These are a few of the minor discomforts of travel to a mission station; the rest can be better imagined than described. If, to the Moslem, to be slain in battle signifies an immediate entrance into the pleasures of Paradise, what should be the reward of those who suffer the vagaries of this northern ocean, and endure to the end?

Sad Seasick Souls strewn aroundToList

My trunk is lost. In the excitement of carpentering incidental to the cloudburst, the crew of the train omitted to drop it off at Come-by-Chance. I am informed that it has returned across the country to St. John's. If I had not already been travelling for a fortnight, or if Heaven had endowed me with fewer inches so that my clothing were not so exclusively my own, the problem of the interim till the next boat would be simpler.

I have had my first, and I may add my last, experience of "brewis," an indeterminate concoction much in favour as an article of diet on this coast. The dish consists of hard bread (ship's biscuit) and codfish boiled together in a copious basis of what I took to be sea-water. "On the surface of the waters" float partially disintegrated chunks of fat salt pork. I am not finicking. I could face any one of these articles of diet alone; but in combination, boiled, and served up lukewarm in a soup plate for breakfast, in the hot cabin of a violently rolling little steamer, they take more than my slender stock of philosophy to cope with. Yet they save the delicacy for the Holy Sabbath. The only justification of this policy that I can see is that, being a day of rest, their stomachs can turn undivided and dogged attention to the process of digestion.

Did I say "day of rest"? The phrase is utterly inadequate. These people are the strictest of Sabbatarians. The Puritan fathers, whom we now look back upon with a shivery thankfulness that our lot did not fall among them, would, and perhaps do, regard them as kindred spirits. But they are earnest Christians, with a truly uncomplaining selflessness of life.

By some twist of my brain that reminds me of a story told me the other day which brings an old legend very prettily to this country. It is said that when Joseph of Arimathea was hounded from place to place by the Jews, he fled to England taking the Grail with him. The spot where he settled he called Avalon. When Lord Baltimore, a devout Catholic, was given a huge tract of land in the south of this little island, he christened it Avalon in commemoration of Joseph of Arimathea's also distant journey. To the disgrace of the Protestants, the Catholic exiles arrived in the "land of promise" only to discover that the spirit of persecution was rampant in this then far-off colony.

Evidently the people of the country think that every man bound for the Mission is a doctor, and every woman a nurse. If my Puritan conscience had not blocked the way, I could have made a considerable sum prescribing for the ailments of my fellow passengers. One little thin woman on board has just confided to me, "Why, miss, I found myself in my stomach three times last week"—and looked up for advice. As for me, I was "taken all aback," and hastened to assure her that nothing approaching so astonishing an event had ever come within the range of my experience. I hated to suggest it to her, but I have a lurking suspicion that the catastrophe had some not too distant connection with the "brewis." By the way, all right-minded Newfoundlanders and Labradormen call it "bruse."

Also by the way, it is incorrect to speak of Newfoundland. It is Newfoundland. Neither do you go up north if you know what you are about. You go "down North"; and your friend is not bound for Labrador. She is going to "the Labrador," or, to be more of a purist still, "the Larbadore." Having put you right on these rudiments—oh! I forgot another: "Fish" is always codfish. Other finny sea-dwellers may have to be designated by their special names, but the unpretentious cod is "t' fish"; and the salutation of friends is not, "How is your wife?" or, "How is your health?" But, "How's t' fish, B'y?" I like it. It is friendly and different—a kind of password to the country.

I am glad that I am not coming here as a mere traveller. The land looks so reserved that, like people of the same type, you are sure it is well worth knowing. So when, perhaps, I have been able to discover a little of its "subliminal self," the tables will be turned, and you will be eager to make its acquaintance. Then it will be my chance to offer you sage and unaccepted advice as to your inability to cope with the climate and its entourage. I too shall be able to prophesy unheeded a shattered constitution and undermined nerves. To be sure, old Jacques Cartier had such a poor opinion of the coast that he remarked it ought to have been the land God gave to Cain. But J.C. has gone to his long rest. After the length of this letter I judge that you envy him that repose, so I release you with