PR 
 
 OS 
 
 h 
 
 CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 BEQUEST 
 
 OF 
 
 STEWART HENRY BURNHAM 
 1943 
 

 Date Due 
 
 
 wmvmim^^ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 rzc'f.c? 
 
 
 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 92401 3621 903 
 
OFF THE ROCKS 
 
 STORIES OF THE 
 
 DEEP-SEA FISHERFOLK 
 
 OF LABRADOR 
 
 BY 
 WILFRED T. X3RENFELL 
 
 Member of Royal College of Surgeons, 
 England ; Master Mariner ; Justice of the 
 Peace; Agent for Lloyds, Underwriters; 
 Superintendent Royal National Mission to 
 Deep Sea Fishermen. 
 
 With an Introduction by 
 Henry van Dyke 
 
 (THIRD EDITION) 
 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 
 THE SUNDAY SCHOOL TIMES CO 
 
 1006 
 
 Kg. 
 
COPVHIGHT, 1906, 
 SY 
 
 Tub Sunday School Tihbs Co. 
 
 EXTiRra) aocording to Act at the Parliament of Canada, in the 
 year one thouaand nine hundred and six, by 
 
 WlLLIA]! B&IOGB, 
 
 ■t the Department o< Affticoltaie. 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 It is impossible to write a formal introduction 
 to this book. 
 
 I remember the wild northern shores from 
 which these stories come ; gray rocks ; dark little 
 forests; restless, changeful seas. There is no 
 introduction to that land, no guide book, no 
 cicerone. Sailing over the sombre blue of 
 waves that never quite forget the fierce cold of 
 winter, you approach the sheer and silent coast, 
 tranquil, reserved, impassive alike to roaring 
 wind and caressing sunlight. You enter a little 
 harbor, sheltered by naked islands. All that it 
 has to offer you is yours at once: the rounded 
 gray slopes of stone, the long recumbent hills, 
 the black rocks breaking the water, a river val- 
 ley, perhaps, marked by evergreen woods, a few 
 wooden houses clustered along the edge of the 
 sea and blending almost imperceptibly with the 
 landscape. This is all; but over this scene, so 
 cool and quiet in color, so open in its large out- 
 lines. Nature is weaving her spell of wonder 
 
Introduction 
 
 and mystery, with lights of morning and even- 
 ing, now opaline and seductive, now clear as 
 crystal, — a spell so deep that it subdues the heart, 
 and makes one feel as if that bare and lonely 
 beauty were the only reality, and all the richer, 
 softer regions of earth were but dreams and 
 illusions. 
 
 I remember also some of the people who spend 
 their lives under that wide enchantment of the 
 double wilderness; homely, rugged folk who 
 cling to their habitations among the rocks with 
 an infinite, pathetic patience, as if the world 
 had no better home to offer them ; courageous, 
 hardy fishermen, who come back year after year 
 to these wind-vexed, uncertain waters, as if there 
 were no safer fields where they could glean their 
 scanty harvest. Men and women of the plain 
 human kind, these — no pretense and no formal- 
 ity—rather silent in their ways, for the most 
 part, but frank, kindly, helpful, ready to meet you 
 without an introduction. 
 
 I remember a night last winter when I sat 
 beside my study fire in the small hours, listening 
 to the man who has given his life to the service 
 of these people — a brave, steady, quiet voice, 
 telling of difficulties overcome, and dangers 
 
Introduction 
 
 faced, and victories won against the black odds 
 of ignorance and disease, making rather light of 
 peril and hardship so far as his own part was 
 concerned, brightening the darkest scenes with 
 touches of irrepressible humor, giving pictures of 
 human character and conduct so real and vivid 
 that they warmed the heart with sympathy, and 
 bearing testimony not to be doubted of the 
 power of plain religion to comfort and save plain 
 folk in time of trouble. It was like hearing a 
 report from one of the messengers who went out 
 in the beginning, when Christianity was young 
 and simple and fearless, to tell men about Jesus 
 of Nazareth and help them for his sake. 
 
 Here, in these stories, I see again that wild, 
 unforgettable coast, those little-speaking, much- 
 enduring fishermen and "liveyeres ;" I hear again 
 the strong, manly, tranquil voice of Wilfred 
 Grenfell telling the things that befell him and 
 his friends. What does such a book need of an 
 introduction ? 
 
 You who love Nature, not trimmed and em- 
 broidered, but in the largeness and mystery of 
 her wild charm ; you who love humanity, not dis- 
 guised and trained for the stage, but frankly 
 living its own life and expressing its primitive 
 
Introduction 
 
 feelings; you who know a man when you see 
 him, and like him best when he does things ; you 
 who feel that religion is just as real as Nature, 
 just as real as humanity, and that brave adven- 
 tures may be achieved in the name of Christ, — 
 this book is for you. This is the real thing. 
 
 HENRY VAN DYKE. 
 
 Avalon, January i, 1906. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Off the Rocks 3 
 
 "That Bit o' Line" 19 
 
 Little Prince Pomiuk 33 
 
 "The Copper Store" 51 
 
 The Preacher 71 
 
 When We Let Our Pilot Go 85 
 
 "Reported Lost" 97 
 
 Johnny 113 
 
 "The Joy of Their Lord" 127 . 
 
 Uncle Silas : Fisherman 139 
 
 Peter Wright: Mail Carrier 159 
 
 Uncle Rube's Net 175 
 
 Green Pastures 193 
 
 She Hath Done What She Could 207 
 
 Not My Will, But Thine 219 
 
 Copyright^ ^907* ^y the Congregationalist and Christian World. 
 Used by permission. 
 
 How Santa Claus Came to Cape St. Anthony . 235 
 
 Copyright, 1906, by G. F. Putnam's Sons. Used by permission. 
 
 ix 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Dwellers in Labrador Frontispiece 
 
 Steamship Strathcona, showing boats of 
 
 visitors and patients facing page 4 
 
 Crew of the Mission Steamship Strath- 
 cona 
 
 Pomiuk's tent 
 
 Eskimos visiting Little Prince Pomiuk . 
 
 Fish store, Labrador 
 
 A neighbor* s house in winter 
 
 Dog team and Montagnais Indians . . 
 Summer fisherman' s house in Labrador 
 Dawn (in spring) 
 
 10 
 
 42 
 46 
 
 54 
 
 60 
 
 116 
 
 176 
 
 196 
 
OFF THE ROCKS 
 
 It was Saturday night in the early fall' that in 
 our large mission hospital schooner we anchored 
 among Adlavik Islands. A lot of schooners 
 frdm the north were here "making" the fish 
 which they had caught farther north. Many of 
 them had called to pick up their freighters, or 
 poorer folk, who had to come down to the 
 Labrador fishery for a living, and yet had been 
 too poor to get credit for a schooner of their,own. 
 They had therefore taken passage on some al- 
 ready crowded craft, in return paying twenty- 
 five cents to the master for every quintal ol hun- 
 dredweight of fish they should catch during the 
 summer. 
 
 Among these, lying close beside us at anchor, 
 was a small craft, labeled on the bow the Fire- 
 fly, though if ever in her early days she had pos- 
 sessed any claim to display the fascination of her 
 namesake, there was nothing about her to be- 
 tray it now. 
 
 As I walked on the deck of our well-appointed 
 3 
 
Off the Rocks 
 
 little craft, I could not help feeling a real sor- 
 row of heart for any man who had to wrest a 
 living from the North Atlantic in a craft so ter- 
 ribly JU-fitted for the purpose. . 
 . Her hull was obviously the rude design of 
 some unskilled fisherman, and was innocent. of 
 any pretension to paint. It was probably the 
 djSKQted work of the skipper, the father of a 
 family, of bo^^j who no doubt had:;|ielped him in 
 that one great step towjirds an inqlependent liv- 
 ing— the . ownership ;of a schoqner. Curves 
 and fine. . lines are difficult to obtain, and, 
 compared with our graceful hull, this poor little 
 craft ;looked merely a bunch of boards. Our 
 -planks and timbers were of stout oak and were 
 all ;Cpi>per-fastened. Our humble neighbor's 
 wer^ of ;th^J^cal soft wood, no doubt from the 
 bay -in which* he lived,, and were held together 
 vvith, at the very,best, galvanized iron nails. Her 
 masts and spars of local spruce compared poorly 
 indeed with ours of staunch Norwegian pitch 
 pine. Her running gear was obviously old, an4 
 even her halyards were spliced in many places; 
 Our stout canvas sails made the Firefly's old 
 patched rags of canvas look insufficient indeed to 
 face the October gales she was sure to encounter 
 4 
 
uJ ui 
 
 ^^ 
 
 2 
 
 CO o 
 2 z 
 
 ll 
 
 O L 
 
 t- £ 
 
 CO cc 
 
 Q. c; 
 
 i' 
 
 UI a 
 
 \- 
 
 CO 
 
Off the Rocks 
 
 before she once more reached her harbor far 
 away to the southward. Her small deck's space, 
 crowded as usual with barrels and casks and fish- 
 ing boats, suggested that if by any chance a sea 
 came over it it would go hard with the ship and 
 all aboard her. But there was something even 
 more distressing to see about her ; she was evi- 
 dently "clean" betwixt decks — ^that is, she had 
 "missed the fish," and the poor skipper was going 
 home to face a winter in which little or nothing 
 could be earned, yet having nothing to purchase 
 a winter's food, and still less to devote to the 
 many needs of his plucky little craft. If she 
 was ill-fitted this year, what would she be next? 
 What hopeless despair would be in my own 
 heart if my lot in life were changed with this 
 man's ! 
 
 The little building ashore devoted to "meet- 
 in's" had been the labor of love of one or two 
 poor fishermen who loved the Lord. It was 
 built of chopped upright sticks, the chinks be- 
 tween had once been stogged with moss, and 
 the rough hand-sawn boards that formed the 
 roof had once been made water-tight with rinds 
 of birch-bark. The floor had always been the 
 native heath — that is, pebbles — and the seats 
 I 
 
Off the Rocks 
 
 were narrow, unedged, chopped boards, seriously 
 rickety for want of good nails. Death had 
 claimed one of the builders ; the other had gone 
 to the "States." 
 
 Sunday was a really raw Labrador fall morn- 
 ing, cold, sunless and dispiriting. None of the 
 craft sailed, and no work was done, as is our 
 wont in Labrador, yet it did not look as if we 
 could expect much of a gathering to "heartily 
 rejoice in our salvation." But the skipper of the 
 Firefly, strange as it may seem, upset all our cal- 
 culations. For not only was he up betimes "get- 
 ting a crowd," but his own exuberant joy in his 
 salvation, showing out through his face — ^yes, 
 and his very clothing — was so contagious that 
 the meetings went with a will. Indeed, he 
 brought God's Spirit, which quickens, with him 
 into our very midst, an asset without which or- 
 thodoxies, ornate rituals and ceremonies are not 
 only dead, but destructive. 
 
 Like the Master, he made the best of every- 
 thing. He moved the topply seats so that they 
 were steadied by the outside walls, and arranged 
 the congregation on the weather side of the 
 building, so that their broad backs might serve 
 to block the drafts out from the chinks. He 
 6 
 
Off the Rocks 
 
 apologized for remaining defects by saying that 
 the holes above "will do to let 'em hear the sing- 
 ing in the harbor." After the evening service, as 
 we walked down to our boats, I spoke to him 
 of his poor luck with the fish. For if ever I felt 
 sorry for a man, I felt sorry for him. 
 
 " 'Tis the Lord's will, Doctor," he replied. "I 
 shall have enough for the winter, thank God." 
 He meant dry flour enough not to starve. 
 
 The whole fleet got under way at daylight, 
 for we were all anxious to get south. In the 
 mission ship, soon after midday, we reached 
 a harbor where we wished to see the settlers. 
 The barometer had fallen a good deal during 
 the day, and there was a lowering look about 
 the sky and an ominous feeling in the air. 
 So we put out two large anchors with a good 
 wide spread, and buoyed them as well. For the 
 harbor was none too good if the sea came in 
 from the eastward, and already there was a sul- 
 len ground swell as if there was something be- 
 hind the present light air. At sundown the little 
 air had fallen to a flat calm, but the swell had 
 increased, and the barometer fallen still lower. 
 We knew we were in for a storm, so we gave 
 sixty fathoms on each chain, and got out our big 
 7 
 
Off the Rocks 
 
 kedge on the rocks with a hundred fathoms of 
 good stout hawser to it. It was now almost dark, 
 when we saw a small schooner being painfully 
 towed into the harbor by some men in a row- 
 boat The calm before the storm had evidently 
 left her helpless outside. At last she came in, and 
 we heard them let go first her port and then her 
 starboard anchor. Evidently her skipper was 
 aware of what was threatening ; we were glad to 
 have a companion, anyhow. 
 
 Soon after midnight it began to rain, and then, 
 with scarcely any warning, the vvind struck us. 
 Everything loose was instantly blown away, but 
 as there was yet little sea, and we always kept 
 an anchor watch so late in the year, we did not 
 stir from our bunks, and soon, as far as I was 
 concerned, I was fast asleep again. It was hardly 
 daylight when I was next awakened, by men 
 talking eagerly in the cabin. The motion of our 
 ship told me at once that the sea had risen con- 
 siderably, though we rode easily. The rain was 
 falling in torrents or the flying spray falling on 
 deck, one could not tell which. 
 
 "What's the matter, Joe?" I shouted. "Any- 
 thing gone wrong?" 
 
 At my voice, he put his head in at my cabin 
 8 
 
Off the Rocks 
 
 door. His oilskins were shining with water, and 
 his hair was dripping also. 
 
 "The schooner ahead of us is drifting, Doctor. 
 It's the one came in after us last night." 
 
 "Drifting! How's the wind?" 
 
 "Right into the harbor. Doctor. There is noth- 
 ing but a watery grave for the crew if she goes 
 ashore. The breakers are half-way up the cUffs." 
 
 It didn't take long to get into sea-boots and 
 oilskins, and join the rest of the crew, ^ho were 
 on deck before me, watching the schooner. 
 
 "She's only riding to one anchor, Joe, isn't 
 she?" 
 
 "Sure enough, sir. She must have parted her 
 other cable in the night. She looks a poor little 
 craft, and like any of them, I expect her hold- 
 ing gear is none too good." 
 
 We were sheltering under the weather cloth in 
 the after rigging. It was still scarcely dawn, and 
 the murky sky, over which endless clouds were 
 scudding, looked cold and disheartening. The 
 roar of the breakers against the cliffs behind us 
 seemed to have a hungry sound, as if they were 
 anticipating the death knell of the poor souls on 
 the slowly drifting schooner. 
 
 "There are women aboard, aren't there, Joe ?" 
 9 
 
Off the Rocks 
 
 "Yes, sure," he said, "and children, too. It's 
 a small freighter, bound home." 
 
 Even as we spoke we could see the deck 
 getting 'more crowded, evidently with people 
 coming up from the cabin. 
 
 "There's thirty or forty of them if there's a 
 man. Doctor !" Joe shouted above the storm. "I 
 guess'they're going to try ithe boats if it. comes 
 to the worst.' -They -might;^ as .'well go down in 
 the -ves'seL ' -They'd "never, ptill to windward in 
 this wind." : '' / ' " '- 
 •' MeariAyhile the schooner was getting nearer 
 to us, though as the wind blew then she would 
 pass at least fifty yards to the south'ard of us. 
 It grew a little lighter as we watched. The 
 schooner was riding to the full scope of her 
 chaiii, and seemed, like some live thing, to be 
 inakihg a desperate effort to save herself and 
 the human souls she was responsible for. As the 
 larger "j swells • came, along, she, would plunge 
 afmost?,bbw under, arid .then rise and shake her- 
 self, as if to free herself of her enemy more com- 
 pletely before he struck her again. Casks and 
 barrels and heterogeneous lumber of every sort 
 had all been thrown overboard to free the decks, 
 and were even now being pounded to atoms on 
 
o 
 o 
 
 z 
 
 < 
 
 o 
 
Off the Rocks 
 
 the relentless rocks astern. It seemed only a 
 matter of time before all on the devoted little 
 schooner would share the same fate. 
 
 "Joe, that's the little schooner that lay near 
 us last night ?" I asked at last. "I'm sure that's 
 her stem." 
 
 "It's the Firefly, as I live, Doctor. If the 
 wind canted ever so little, we might pass them 
 a line," he said, hoarsely. "We can only fail at 
 worst. I'll be glad to make one in the boat to 
 try." 
 
 "You'll do nothing with the life-boat, Joe. 
 She's much too heavy. It must be the jolly-boat 
 or nothing." 
 
 There was no time to be lost. Volunteers were 
 plentiful for the four places in the boat. Who 
 ever knew a deep-sea fisherman to hang back 
 when life was to be saved? Fear? Yes, many 
 have to go down before the ocean's might, but 
 fear? They don't know what it means. 
 
 The boat was manned as much as possible un- 
 der the shelter of our own hull, and a long, fine 
 line coiled in the stem, to which we attached the 
 end of our stout double-twisted wire hawser. A 
 second line attached to the boat was to act as a 
 life-line in case anything went wrong. 
 
Off the Rocks 
 
 "God give you strength, boys," was all we 
 could say as they stood to their oars, ready to 
 make a dash to windward. 
 
 The crazy wind seemed to howl down with ex- 
 tra violence as the men bent to the oars, and a 
 fierce sea, rising up, hurled the bow oar out of 
 the rowlock, arid drove the boat some precious 
 yards astern. The tail of it, topping over the 
 boat's rail, set the cox to bailing for all he was 
 worth. Again the bow oar is shipped, and those 
 herculean backs, toughened by years of contest 
 with nature in her angry moods, are straining 
 every sinew to hold their own. Now they would 
 gain a little, now lose it again. Again an oar 
 would be unshipped, and again the boat half filled 
 with water. They were edging away to the 
 south'ard, but making no headway. It soon be- 
 came obvious that they couldn't get to windward. 
 At best they could only hold their own, and if 
 their strength failed, or an oar broke, it became a 
 question if we should be able to get them back. 
 If only the wind would cant a little, there was 
 still a chance. 
 
 The men on the Firefly had seen the boat, and 
 had at once taken in the situation. A small water- 
 breaker was at once emptied, lashed to the end 
 
 12 
 
Off the Rocks 
 
 of fheir log line, and flung over the side. The 
 schooner was now nearly abeam of us, and riding 
 not more than four hundred yards from the rocks 
 behind her, that spelled death to every soul 
 aboard her if she went ashore. Everything would 
 be decided in a few seconds now. Even our lads 
 couldn't stand the strain much longer. I think 
 that, could we have read them,- some of their 
 thoughts were in little homes ashore just then. I 
 know that I was thinking of wives and children — 
 
 "For men must work and women must weep, 
 And the sooner it's over the sooner to sleep." 
 
 But just then a wonderful thing hapjpened. 
 The empty cask was coming appreciably nearer 
 to the boat. Were they making way? No, not 
 an inch. They were still astern of our counter, 
 which they had left, it seemed, ages ago. Surely 
 it isn't a change of wind ! Our wind-vane on the 
 masthead hadn't budged an inch. No, it was just 
 a flaw of wind on the water — a flaw, surely, just 
 in the nick of time! Almost unable to speak for 
 excitement, we saw that our boys in the boat had 
 noticed it. We on the ship had time to pray as we 
 watched them. What would we have given at 
 that moment to have been able to lend a hand 
 13 
 
Off the Rocks 
 
 in the boat ! It must be now or never. They 
 saw this also, and with one supreme eflFort our 
 noble lads had seized the moment, and bent every 
 ounce of strength to the oars. 
 
 If cheering could have been heard in the howl- 
 ing wind, we could have cheered ourselves 
 speechless as we saw the bow man drop his oar, 
 lean over, and heave the cask into the boat. In 
 less than half a minute the line was detached, 
 fastened to the line coiled in the stem, and the 
 Firefly's men were hauling it in, while our boat 
 still had her work cut out to make the ship once 
 more. But soon we knew that the joy of saving 
 the ship was to be ours. The wire hawser, care- 
 fully paid out, was soon through the Firefly's 
 hawsepipe and fast around the mainmast itself. 
 In less than a quarter of an hour she was riding 
 behind our ship. True, her keel was only a few 
 feet from the rocks as she rose and fell on the 
 mountainous swell, but the line was trustworthy, 
 and we ourselves were anchored sure and deep. 
 
 And so, when the storm was over, and our 
 friends of the Firefly came on board, I don't 
 know which of us was the most grateful, the 
 saved or the saviours. It was only a pot of tea 
 without sugar, and salt tub butter that graced 
 14 
 
Off the Rocks 
 
 our humble table ! It was only a crowd of men 
 in coarse clothing, with sea-boots and blue guern- 
 seys in place of broadcloth and patent leathers, 
 but I know that all our hearts, as we gathered 
 around to thank the Giver of all good gifts, were 
 full of a joy not to be purchased with dollars or 
 found in any selfish indulgence this passing life 
 can tempt us with. Nor hereafter will the "Well 
 done, good and faithful servant, enter thou into 
 the joy of thy Lord," be for those who have been 
 "saved as by fire," but for those who have used 
 their talents to save others, and so have known 
 the Saviour's joy. 
 
 IS 
 
"THAT BIT O' LINE" 
 
"THAT BIT 0' LI 
 
 1^"/ 
 
 \ 
 
 "Heave her to, skipper, and 1 
 
 feBnim to throw 
 
 e boat out, I'm going to t 
 
 o«d that steam* 
 
 awler; I see she has l^geai 
 
 d*vn." / 
 
 This was to the skipper otiMe North Sea Mis- 
 
 sion vessel in which I vi^as at the time 
 among the Deep Sea> ishlgrmen of the^ 
 bank. 
 
 St, m 
 
 "She's going 
 shall catch her?' 
 
 In my heart I 
 was new to 
 found it ver; 
 how to begi 
 answer 
 
 ^king 
 Jogger 
 
 tor ; do yo/ think we 
 
 we wouldwt do so, for I 
 
 then, and/l had always 
 
 It to know/vhat to say and 
 
 [complete /trangers. Still I 
 
 the Betlrel flag on the miz- 
 
 come aronnd then. She's a 
 
 I see 
 
 ed us ill the night ; must have 
 
 I suppose. The Short Blue 
 
 ugh our jweathermost vessels last 
 
 she's a Sh*t Blue vessel." While 
 
 Ing he had been hauling out the 
 
 19 
 
" That Bit o' Line " 
 
 broad tri-color Bethel flag to the gaff end. It 
 usually signals to the fleet for service, but hung 
 on the gaff end it means "want to speak to you." 
 Tiie strange trawler blew her whistle in answer 
 aria evidently put her helm over, for she com- 
 menced to make a circle round us as nearly as 
 her great net, sweeping over the bottom, per- 
 mitted her. I was still anxious about my recep- 
 tion, and wished it was anyone else who had to 
 go, or that some one had a leg broken to give 
 me an excuse. 
 
 "Who's the skipper of her, do you know?" I 
 asked, handing the glasses to our captain. 
 
 "Can't say I do, Doctor; but him they call 
 Fenin Jack had her once. It's the old Albatross 
 — ^you know her, I'm sure." 
 
 "Well, if it's a stranger, all the more need to 
 go to try and put in a word for the Master. 
 Let's have two good hands in the boat ; we shall 
 need them in this lop." 
 
 The trouble in boarding a trawler at sea is 
 that she cannot stop to allow you to come along- 
 side, and it is always hard to go alongside a 
 vessel that is under way, even in smooth water. 
 However, it is a faint heart that never won, and 
 no man can accuse a deep-sea fisherman of 
 20 
 
" That Bit o' Line " 
 
 that. We were soon aboard and the big- 
 bodied and big-hearted fisherman on the bridge 
 was shouting out: "What Cheer, Oh! Come 
 up on the bridge. Mind the warp there. Go 
 down below, you lads, and get a mug o' tea. 
 You'll find the cook in the galley." He seemed 
 so genial that I thought I should find it all the 
 harder to speak to him of his need of Christ. 
 
 The grip the skipper gave me as I mounted the 
 bridge left no doubt that there was a man behind 
 the hand that gave it. Strangers though we were, 
 we were soon good friends, for the skipper was a 
 typical deep-sea man, with the absence of self- 
 consciousness so delightful in men of the sea. 
 Generosity, indeed, becomes almost a fault with 
 them, and is often the cause of their being unable 
 to say "No," just because "No" means hurting 
 the feelings of some comrade who, perhaps, is 
 asking them to enter a saloon. Unselfishness also 
 becomes almost recklessness, when these men 
 with wives and children go in search of forlorn , 
 hopes because "some poor devil is on his beam 
 ends." When we had exhausted the subjects of 
 the weather and the fish I ventured at last to ask 
 my friend if it would be possible to have a little 
 meeting in the cabin before we left. 
 
 21 
 
" That Bit o' Line " 
 
 "Maybe later on," he replied. "The watch is 
 turned in at present. I guess they'll listen if you 
 spin a yarn about anything except fish." 
 
 It didn't seem to me that my prayer for a 
 word in season was being answered just then. Up 
 to that moment I had not noticed any other man 
 on deck except the helmsman. But now, chanc- 
 ing to look up, I saw a man sitting in a sUng about 
 half-way up the funnel, which he was leisurely 
 chipping preparatory to repairing it. Our visits 
 are;; necessarily so few and far between to the 
 many fishing vessels, and, therefore, the oppor- 
 tunities so precious, that we generally try to get 
 in a word or two with all the men, even if it is 
 only that they may know us and feel that they 
 have a friend in. the mission vessel. This is not 
 seldom the thing that brings a shy fisherman to 
 pay his first visit to the ships or to our institutes 
 ashore. 
 
 But on looking more closely at the man on the 
 funnel I thought I noticed something familiar 
 about him, more especially the head of red hair. 
 
 "That's never you, Dick, is it ?" The red head 
 turned around, and now I saw there could be no 
 doubt about it. "Why, man alive, I thought you 
 were drowned last New Year's." 
 
 22 
 
" That Bit o' Line " 
 
 "So did I, Doctor. And 'deed so I was, till 
 the crew of the old Europa pumped the water out 
 of me." 
 
 "Come and tell us a yarn as soon as you are 
 through with the funnel. I'm mighty glad to see 
 you in the fleet again." 
 
 The watch was roused at eight bells, and after 
 Dick had enjoyed a scrub in a bucket on deck I 
 followed him below. The steward had spread 
 out for all of us some steaming bowls of tea, 
 which seemed to have driven the thoughts of the 
 promised yam out of my friend's red head, till I 
 broke in : "Come along, Dick, let's hear how it 
 is you're still above water." At last, as if he had 
 already nearly forgotten all about it, and when 
 he had lighted his pipe to assist his memory, he 
 began: 
 
 "It were last New Year's day, Doctor. We 
 was in the old Sunbeam on the tail end o' the 
 Dogger. The wind was in the nor'northeast, and 
 there were a nasty top heaving along from over- 
 night. 'Deed it was so bad the Admiral didn't 
 show his flags for boarding." 
 
 Under our regulations if any loss of life oc- 
 curred from throwing out a boat to try to trans- 
 fer fish to the carrier, it meant a charge of man- 
 23 
 
" That Bit o' Line " 
 
 slaughter against the skipper of the vessel who 
 sent his men. But the temptation to a skipper 
 to do so is great, because the worse the weather 
 and the fewer boats that send their fish to the 
 market the higher will be the returns for thos? 
 that do send. At the same time the young fel- 
 lows are recklessly courageous and don't care 
 to show the white feather when ordered to go in 
 the little boat to ferry fish. 
 
 "Our skipper ordered the boat out, as we had 
 a big haul, and me and Sam and Arch took her. 
 It was pretty bad alongside the steamer among 
 the other boats. She were shipping the lop over 
 both rails as she rolled in the trough o' the sea 
 I never saw such a crowd knocked off their pins 
 by loose boxes, and rolled into the water in the 
 scuppers in my life. Almost every one got a cold 
 bath on deck before they were through with it. 
 However, we got clear all right. It was snowing 
 at the time and looked dirty to wind'ard, so we 
 were for getting aboard again as soon as we 
 could. I suppose we must have been a bit care- 
 less, now we were clear of that heavy lot o' fish. 
 For I was just standing up shouting 'A happy 
 New Year and many of 'em' to the Sunbeam's 
 boat, when a curly sea caught us right under the 
 24 
 
"That Bit o' Line" 
 
 quarter and turned us clean upside down. I grab- 
 bed hold of something hard, and found myself 
 holding on to the thwart. Only it was pitch dark. 
 I was under the boat. There was air enough, 
 as we had tipped over like a trap, but it were 
 awful cold hanging in the water. I knew it 
 weren't much good hanging on there, so I just 
 grabbed the gunwale, and hauled myself out- 
 side. I had to go right under water for it, and I 
 can't swim a stroke. But somehow I came up all 
 right and caught the life-line which is rove 
 through the keel, and I climbed on to the bottom. 
 "Archie was there already, but Sam had gone, 
 and I guess he was dead by then. The driving 
 spray kept us from seeing to windward, and that 
 was the only way help could come. We were 
 soon half dead with cold, for the old boat 
 was level with the water and pretty nigh 
 every sea went over us. Arch soon gave up and 
 his head went down on the boat's bottom. 
 I kept shouting to him, 'For God's sake 
 keep up a little longer,' as I could see 
 a smack shaking up into the wind ahead of us, 
 and I guessed they had seen us and were getting 
 out their boat. 
 , "But just then an extra big sea came 
 
" That Bit o' Line *' 
 
 along and washed us both off. me still hold- 
 ing on to Arch's oil frock. All I remember was 
 striking out and finding something was holdihg 
 me up. I had come up right through, the life 
 buoy ring. I'd hardly had time, however, to 
 cou^h up some of the water I'd swallowed when 
 I felt something tugging at me, and then it pulled 
 me right under water again. I soon found what 
 it ;*as. The life buoy was fastened to the stern of 
 the boat by a half-inch hemp line, and every time 
 a sea came along the old boat sogged down under 
 water and dragged me with it. 
 
 "Then it flashed across my mind what 
 would happen. If I didn't cut that line 
 an3 get loose the same sea that would 
 brfaig the boat for me would find me under 
 water, even if I wasn't drowned before that. I 
 felt in my pocket for my fish knife — I couldn't 
 haVe opened it if I had it. Indeed, I knew it 
 wasn't there, for I could remember leaving it on 
 tte capstan after cleaning the fish. 'Deed, it 
 seamed I could remember everything I ever did. 
 Then I felt the tugging again, and down I went. 
 Itiweren't the fault o' the life belt. It was just 
 ll^use I couldn't cut adrift; it were only just 
 that bit o' line. All I pould do was to get it in my 
 
" That Bit o' Line " 
 
 teeth when I could and chew at it. But it was 
 no good; I couldn't cut adrift. 
 
 • "Then I saw the boat coming. It got 
 nearer and nearer. I could see some one 
 leaning over the bow to grab me, and 
 then I felt the tugging again, and down I 
 went under water. It was just as I had thought. 
 As I looked up through the water I saw the boat 
 rush past over my head, and I knew, once it was 
 to leeward, it could never get back to me. Then I 
 lost consciousness. Of course, they went on and 
 told every one I was lost. But I suppose the Lord 
 hadn't done with me yet. For soon after, the 
 steam carrier came along, and saw the boat, and 
 then saw me still in the life buoy. They picked 
 me up, and after a couple of hours rubbed life 
 into me again. So here I am, you see." He 
 stopped and sucked strenuously at his short clay 
 pipe as if the telling had been an effort. 
 
 God's ways are not ours. Here in this unexpect- 
 ed way he had put into my mouth a subject that 
 would be sure to interest the little company that 
 gathered in the strange trawler's after-cabin. 
 When the meal was over and the pipes alight 
 again, while the cook-boy washed up the last re- 
 main« of the meal, I produced my pocketful of 
 »7 
 
"That Bit o' Line " 
 
 hymn-books and proposed to sing. With a ready 
 response, such as sailors generally make to such 
 a proposal, we launched out into "one with a 
 chorus." The various members of the crew 
 chimed in with the nearest tunes they knew, so 
 that it was a cheerful noise together that as- 
 cended the hatchway. Owing to the vigor dis- 
 played it reached the man at the wheel, and even 
 he couldn't resist joining in too as he steered the 
 ^ip — 
 
 "Why should I remain 
 
 With ONE step between me and Jesus." 
 
 The life buoy and its lessons served as a subject 
 all could understand. The life buoy hanging 
 in the rigging warns us in finest weather 
 to take heed — ^it is easily able to hold us in the 
 deepest waters if we take hold. Yet we must 
 trust to it entirely and get loose from every tie, 
 however little, that binds us to perishing things, 
 if we are to be safe. We must follow His foot- 
 steps who went to the Cross, and must have no 
 reservations if we are to be useful. Though"^ 
 we cannot shake oflf the sins that tie and bind us, 
 Cljrist is more than a mere life buoy, for He can, 
 and is waiting to set us free if we ask Him. 
 
 38 
 
"That Bit o' Line" 
 
 "What is binding you now, Dick? Will you 
 ask Him to set you free?" For the tie, however 
 small, that holds us to the world, spells death. 
 The tie that binds us to Christ spells life here 
 and hereafter. 
 
 af 
 
LITTLE PRINCE POMIUK 
 
LITTLE PRINCE POMIUK 
 
 "Whatever is that schooner bound south for 
 at this time of year, skipper," I asked a fisher- 
 man who had just come aboard the mission ship 
 with a "kink" (a sprain) in his back, as I 
 looked up and saw a large, white-winged schooner 
 bowling along to the south'ard with every inch 
 of canvas spread to the spanking breeze that 
 was blowing. "Her decks seem as crowded as 
 if they were a Noah's Ark." 
 
 He looked at her for a long time, and then 
 replied in his deliberate way: "I guess, Doctor, 
 that this is the Yankee what's bin down north 
 after some Huskies. What does they do with 
 'em. Doctor, when they get 'em?" he asked in a 
 tone of voice that implied that they might be 
 going to make them into sausages. 
 
 "Why, put them in a cage, like a lot of mon- 
 keys, and get people to pay ten cents a head to 
 look at them," I replied. "They are going to 
 the World's' Fair, and it's very little good the 
 poor souls will get there. The Brethren at 
 33 
 
Little Prince Pomiuk 
 
 the Mission station have tried all they can to pre- 
 vent their going, but they make such big prom- 
 ises that the poor creatures think they will never 
 have to work again — and that's true partly, for 
 many will never come back to L,abrador." 
 
 "God keep 'em," he replied reverently. 
 
 The schooner soon disappeared over the hori- 
 zon and with her vanished from our minds all 
 thoughts of her unfortunate occupants. 
 
 The Eskimo encampment at the World's Fair 
 was a popular sideshow. Sightseers of every 
 sort crowded in to see the Eskimos from Labra- 
 dor, just as they did the jumping elephants or 
 the Ferris wheel. 
 
 Most popular among these poor creatures was 
 a little boy — ^son of a chief from the north, whose 
 name was Kaiachououk; he was popular at the 
 show for his merry, laughing manner, his strik- 
 ing dark face with the jet black hair, and the far- 
 away, deep brown eyes. Active as a squirrel, 
 rejoicing in the strength of youth that had been 
 perfected by a life in close contact with nature, 
 he would make the inclosure ring all over with 
 the crack of his thirty-foot dog whip and the 
 buoyant ring of his merry laughter. Many a 
 nickel was thrown in that little Prince Pomiuk 
 34 
 
Litde Prince Pomiuk 
 
 might show his dexterity with the weapon that 
 not a single grown man in all the crowd could 
 wield. He could make the coin dance on the 
 ground as his whirling lash fell on it from thirty 
 feet away, with a loud crack that eclipsed the 
 rifle shots from the shooting gallery hard by. 
 It would seem that there was no more popular 
 figure in all that vast exhibition than this child 
 of the far north. There was certainly no one 
 more light-hearted in all that throng than little 
 Prince Pomiuk, of the Labrador Eskimos. 
 
 The shadow of the evil days to come had not 
 yet fallen on that little life, and with boyish un- 
 consciousness of all that the World's Fair City 
 in summer was costing a constitution only accli- 
 matized to the northern snow, no one was en- 
 joying more than he all the fun of the Fair. 
 
 But among all the sightseers for whom these 
 humble children of the great God were only as 
 the attraction of a Roman holiday, was a man 
 no longer young, a man who in the prime of life 
 had given of his best years for the dwellers of 
 those regions beyond from which the child had 
 been lured by the promises that, alas ! were never 
 to be realized. 
 
 Though still young enough to enjoy the count- 
 35 
 
Little Prince Pomiuk 
 
 less attractions and to appreciate the educational 
 opportunities of the many exhibits from the ends 
 of the earth, it was yet only a veritable call from 
 the wild that had brought this one man all the 
 long way here. 
 
 There were to be some children of the Lab- 
 rador. God would permit him the joy once again 
 of giving in his own person yet another message 
 to them. For many years he had only been 
 able to serve them as one of the Lord's remem- 
 brancers for them at his country home in New 
 England. 
 
 Here where so many were seeking pleasure — 
 amidst all that gay and apparently well satisfied 
 throng, this was to be the sweetest joy of all, 
 even there at the World's Fair — the joy of serv- 
 ice. This is the joy which alone makes life itself 
 a joyful thing. It alone illuminates with beauty 
 the sick room of the lifelong invalid — 
 where the gilding of fleeting pleasures has come 
 off, and the heart has learned to understand that 
 the satisfying of the soul of man is not in these 
 things. But this joy is not always visible to the 
 eyes that see only awful monotony in living 
 among those poor creatures, though in bridge 
 parties that recur like decimals, progressive eu- 
 36 
 
Little Prince Pomiuk 
 
 chre evenings and retrogressive gossip they see 
 no reason to weep over the waste of all the best 
 assets of life. 
 
 Day after day this privileged man had the op- 
 portunity given him of visiting the Eskimos — day 
 after day he reveled in the enjoyment of it — 
 and as he realized that the love of these wander- 
 ers was going out to him, and through him to 
 the Master whose business he was about — yes, 
 and whose very presence he carried with him — ^his 
 cup ran over daily with the realization of that 
 glorified service in which he had enlisted. Espe- 
 cially did his love go out to the children — that 
 was his Master's way, too — and he prayed, as 
 those pray who are victors in prayer, that Pom- 
 iuk, the soul of them all, should share his own 
 priceless treasure, the consciousness of a heavenly 
 Father's love. 
 
 The good days for Pomiuk, however, went all 
 too quickly, and one day his friend found 
 him in one of the dark huts, lying on a bed of 
 sickness. An injury to his thigh had ended by 
 the insidious onset of disease of the hip joint, and 
 the merry child had already commenced the liv- 
 ing agony of the victim of tubercle. 
 
 A little later the Exhibition closed, and the 
 37 
 
Little Prince Pomiuk 
 
 poor Eskimos commenced their long journey to 
 their far-off northern home. 
 
 Alas ! the promises of wealth and personal con- 
 duct home were never realized, and the remnant 
 of them straggled back as best they could. 
 
 During the following winter the little party 
 to which Pomiuk belonged was ice-bound on 
 the northeast coast of Newfoundland. Here 
 they passed a tolerable winter in a house kindly 
 loaned them by a Christian postmaster. Pomiuk 
 hobbled about on a pair of crutches and played 
 with Evelina, a little girl born at the Exhibition. 
 
 But though lost to sight, this waif of the North- 
 land still lived in the heart of his friend of the 
 Exhibition. He sent after the boy on their errands 
 of love letter after letter, till he heard that the ice 
 of winter had once more gone — ^the sea was once 
 more open to the plucky fishermen who ply their 
 hazardous calling even among the eternal ice 
 floes of Arctic seas. 
 
 On one of these adventurous craft little Pom- 
 iuk had once more begun his wanderings, and it 
 appeared as if he had disappeared forever into 
 the unknown. Letter after letter failed to reach 
 him and brought back no answers from the silent 
 north. It seemed indeed as if the Lord of the 
 38 
 
Litde Prince Pomiuk 
 
 children had forgotten this little one of His, and 
 Mr. Martin was sad,, of heart. 
 
 Meanwhile Pomiuk had reached as far north 
 as Ramah. His increasing sufferings had made 
 it impossible for the band to take him farther 
 that year. The good Brethren of that northern 
 station had there done what they could to help 
 him, and probably but for their kindness he would 
 not have lived the winter through. 
 
 Meanwhile the new mission steamer which 
 had met with such terrible disaster the previous 
 year had been put in good repair once more. 
 The long tow to St. John's had been safely man- 
 aged by the skill and courage of the captain of 
 the mission schooner, and in June of 1895 we 
 again steamed out through the Narrows on our 
 journey to the north. This year we determined, 
 God helping us, to carry out our great desire to 
 push as far north as the farthest family of white 
 settlers, wherever that might be. 
 
 Late, therefore, in the summer we found our- 
 selves off the entrance to that marvelous ravine 
 in the vast mountains of the north named Nak- 
 nak on the chart. Over the frowning cliffs there, 
 two thousand feet high, hung heavy banks 
 of sea fog, hiding their jagged peaks, and roofing 
 ,39 
 
Litde Prince Pomiuk 
 
 the weird opening as if it were the fearsome en- 
 trance to some grim ogre's cavern. Our lead 
 found no bottom when we tried to sound it. 
 There were breakers thundering on a hidden reef 
 across the opening, and as these were not on 
 the chart we were doubtful if this was really 
 the entrance we were searching for. 
 
 However, by cautious pushing ahead we soon 
 found ourselves between lofty naked walls, the 
 tops hidden in wet fog, and so, pushing in, we 
 at last saw light streaming in from above, and 
 found ourselves, as it were, in an endless ravine, 
 closed behind us by a great black gate. Cau- 
 tiously we pushed in till it was already dark. Yet 
 we had seen no light. We were now twenty 
 miles in from the entrance, and uncertain what 
 to do, for we were still unable to get bottom for 
 an anchorage, and yet we might run ashore in 
 the dark if we did not bring up. 
 
 At last, however, the watch sang out, "Light 
 on the starboard bow." The night was still, and 
 the sound of our steamer whistle echoed and 
 re-echoed in endless cadences between the mighty 
 cliffs. 
 
 Then three rifle shots rang out in answer, fol- 
 lowed by a boat a little later bumping into our 
 40 
 
Little Prince Pomiuk 
 
 quarter in the darkness, and a hearty Englishman 
 jumped over our rail. 
 
 "Who on earth are you ?" he asked, "and how- 
 ever did you get here? The mission ship, eh? 
 I've heard of her from the captain of the Erik." 
 The Erik was the steamer of the Hudson's Bay 
 Fur Company, that comes once a year to take the 
 catch of fur home to market, and this was George 
 Ford, their agent, who, with his family, had for 
 twenty years lived alone at the bottom of this 
 terrible fjord. 
 
 During the evening, which we spent together, 
 our friend told us that the Eskimos were all away 
 hunting, but that one group were still farther 
 up the fjord and had with them a dying boy. 
 
 It seemed almost like looking for a needle in 
 a haystack to search for a tiny tent no bigger 
 than one of the boulders that lay in thousands at 
 the feet of those stupendous cliffs. But next 
 morning we climbed a high promontory and 
 searched the shores of the inlet carefully with 
 our glasses. There it was, sure enough, nestling 
 in near the mouth of a mighty torrent that was 
 rushing headlong down the cliffs. 
 
 "Get out the jolly boat!" We now had our 
 bearings of the tent, and were soon peeping into 
 41 
 
Little Prince Pomiuk 
 
 the little skin "tubik," or tent, of an Eskimo fam- 
 ily. 
 
 Sitting on a heap at one end of the tent, cov- 
 ered with deer skins, was an Eskimo woman with 
 two tiny girls, while lying on the stones of the 
 beach that served for a floor lay a naked boy of 
 about eleven years, his long, jet black hair cut in 
 a straight frieze across his forehead, his face 
 drawn Afrith'pkin and neglect, his largei deep, hazel 
 eyes fixed wonderingly on us strangers. ' He 
 didn't move, even when I spoke to- him, for his 
 hip was broken and diseased. A man called 
 "Kupah" was the owner of the tent. The little 
 boy was Pomiuk. 
 
 After the breaking up of the Exhibition he 
 had never reached home again. While he was at 
 the Fair his father, Kaiachououk, had been 
 treacherously murdered by a man called Kalle- 
 lizak. His mother had married again and was 
 away across the mountains. She had taken with 
 her the rest of the family. 
 
 "All we can do, Ford, is to take the child back 
 with us. It would be kinder to give him a lethal 
 draught than to leaVe him to suffer here. See 
 what Kupah says to giving him to me for good." 
 
 Mr. Ford explained to Kupah that we were 
 • 42 
 

 POMIUK'S TENT 
 
Litde Prince Pomiuk 
 
 good medicine men, and wanted to make the child 
 well ; that he would be no use fishing, and indeed 
 was only a hindrance now. As I watched him 
 narrowly to see what fate awaited Pomiuk I saw 
 him in the true Eskimo style shrug his shoulders 
 and say "Ajauna mat," the equivalent of "It can't 
 be helped," or "Do as you like." 
 
 Having put Pomiuk to sleep we carried him 
 to Mr. Ford's house on an improvised stretcher. 
 Here he was washed and dressed, and as we 
 steamed south again the child, wrapped in a big 
 white bearskin, was lying on the deck, following 
 with his large pathetic eyes every movement 
 of these strangers. 
 
 Only one treasured possession he had — ^be- 
 sides his naked body — a letter we had received 
 from the Hudson's Bay agent. It was addressed 
 to Pomiuk and told of an old man in Andover, 
 who loved and was praying for this lost sheep 
 away in the mountains. It contained a photo- 
 graph, and when I showed it to Pomiuk he said : 
 "Me even love him." 
 
 A letter was sent to the address given, and 
 three months later came back an answer. 
 
 As I looked at it I could see that tears of joy 
 had fallen as the old man thought of the great 
 43 
 
Little Prince Pomiuk 
 
 love of God that had so wondrously followed 
 this little outcast. 
 
 "Keep him," it said. "Don't let him be lost 
 again. I am only a poor man myself, but if 
 you will keep the child we will pay. Only Pom- 
 iuk, for Christ's sake, must never know cold and 
 loneliness again." 
 
 And so the children who formed the "comer" 
 of a certain paper, and who had learned about 
 Pomiuk at the World's Fair, became his little 
 guardians, and said: "He belongs to us. We 
 will take care of him." 
 
 As our steamer traveled south, visiting as she 
 went, the heart of one of the brave Moravian 
 missionaries, Brother Schmidt, was touched for 
 our lonely child, and he gave him a little con- 
 certina to play with. This served to while away 
 many a weary hour till at length Pomiuk could 
 play several simple hymns. Among these was 
 one he had learned at Ramah. It ran thus : "Tak- 
 panele, Takpanele, Memgotowikangilak," "Up in 
 heaven, up in heaven, there shall be no sorrow 
 there." He would sing it for us as his health 
 improved, accompanying himself and ending al- 
 ways with his merry laughter when he noticed 
 the men on deck were stopping to listen to him, 
 44 
 
Little Prince Pomiuk 
 
 Out in the Atlantic, on an island, two hundred 
 miles north of the Straits of Belle Isle, we had 
 built one of our little mission hospitals. Here 
 we left Pomiuk until in November we had to 
 move him up the long bay. For only there are 
 trees, which give some shelter from the terrible 
 blizzards which make life on the outside islands 
 impossible in winter. 
 
 During this winter the boy seemed so fully to 
 have learned the story of our Saviour's love that 
 he was baptized, and as a sign of his new life in 
 Christ Jesus he received the name of Gabriel — 
 the angel of comfort. 
 
 I had to go home to England that winter, but 
 in spirit I was often in Labrador, so that mine 
 was a joy that dollars could not buy when the 
 child's joyful laughter greeted me once more, as 
 he told me "Gabriel Pomiuk, me." He had hung 
 out of his window a Red Cross flag, tied on the 
 end of his crutch when he heard our ship was in 
 the ofSng once more. He was just crying with 
 joy when we came tramping up the stairway. 
 
 As a true Christian should always be, Pomiuk 
 was happy all the day long, and the tenor of his 
 letters to his far-off friends in America is ex- 
 pressed best in his frequent interpolations of "me 
 45 
 
Little Prince Pomiuk 
 
 very laughing," till at last he wrote also, "Me 
 walk with crutches now, me very glad." His af- 
 fectionate little nature always made him end with 
 "Aukshenai (good-bye) Mr. Martin, very much." 
 
 It was a lovely thing to see this stray child 
 of the Northland blossom out into the simple 
 Christian graces. He had many gifts sent him 
 from American boys and girls. These he loved 
 for their own sakes at first, and treasured closely. 
 But soon he learned to love better the sharing 
 of them with other cripple friends that from 
 time to time found their way into the hospital. 
 His busy fingers, too, put into models of dog 
 sleighs and kajaks (canoes) the affection in his 
 heart for all those who were kind to him. 
 
 But there was a greater love than ours for this 
 child. One day came a letter from the hospital 
 at Battle Harbor, where Pomiuk then was. It 
 told how Pomiuk had been seized with a kind of 
 fit and been kept in bed all the week, at times 
 lapsing into unconsciousness. On Sunday night 
 he asked for a verse of his favorite hymn : 
 
 "Jesus bids us shine with a clear, pure light, 
 Like a little candle burning in the night; 
 In this world of darkness we must shine. 
 You in your small corner, and I in mine." 
 46 
 
Litde Prince !Pomiuk 
 
 On Monday morning he went quietly home. 
 
 The Doctor wrote : 
 
 "His unselfishness and amiable disposition 
 made every one love him, and his memory will 
 be fresh in many hearts for years to come. We 
 must not be sorry for him. He has exchanged 
 a life of feebleness for that full life beyond. The 
 Lord Jesus was very real to him. Pomiuk loved 
 to hear of Him as the Good Shepherd. Now He 
 has taken him to Himself. 
 
 "I miss his happy, smiling face, and the hos- 
 pital seems desolate. I sometimes wander up 
 into the ward, only to remember he is no longer 
 there. Tommy, our little paralyzed boy, will 
 miss him most. They were such great friends. 
 For ourselves we are sorry to lose such a happy 
 lad; he was an example and comfort to all who 
 came into the hospital. He endured patiently 
 and bravely the limitations of a crippled life, and 
 he enjoys his reward. , Now he is gone, it must 
 be our duty and joy to seek to brighten other 
 clouded lives, and bring into their hearts the sun- 
 shine of our Saviour's love." 
 
 In a sheltered hollow in our tiny graveyard 
 where others weary and worn had also been 
 laid, rests the little body of this true Prince, 
 47 
 
Little Prince Pomiuk 
 
 and on the resting-place his new name, by which 
 he shall be known in heaven, Gabriel, which 
 means God's man. 
 
 That night the mysterious aurora made bright 
 the vault of heaven, its banners gleaming like 
 the festal illuminations of some royal city. These 
 simple children of the Northland call it "the 
 spirits of the dead at play." But to the sad, yet 
 faithful Christian eyes that looked upon it, it was 
 the shining symbol of the joy in the city of God 
 that yet another young soldier of Jesus Christ 
 had won his way home to the palace of the King. 
 
 48 
 
'THE COPPER STORE' 
 
"THE COPPER STORE" 
 
 There could be no two minds about Tom 
 Sparks. It was no trouble for him to work. His 
 keen, active mind fired with energy his strong, 
 well-built body. He was the true type of a New- 
 foundland fisherman. Medium height, broad- 
 shouldered, with a frank open face betokening 
 no little will power. 
 
 It was his greatest delight to be first on the 
 fishing grounds, and he was ever the last to leave 
 when a "spurt o' fish" was running. In the dark 
 before dawn in our harbor, when the air is as 
 sweet as sugar, and the silence almost unearthly, 
 it used to be Tom's footfall on the rocks, and the 
 sound of Tom stepping into his boat that herald- 
 ed the activity of the coming day. Yet many a 
 time you could see the tiny light twinkling away 
 in Tom's fishing stage, as he finished splitting 
 the last half quintal, when there was not an- 
 other light in the harbor. 
 
 Tom was a "snapper fisherman," and if any 
 boat in the harbor got a load it was as certain 
 51 
 
" The Copper Store " 
 
 as daylight that Tom's punt did not go home 
 empty. 
 
 "I wants to get ahead, Doctor," he used to say. 
 "And then, please God, I'll build a bigger boat, 
 a schooner, maybe, one o' these days. No man 
 can't be sure o' getting a winter's diet with only 
 a cross-hand skiif to work in." 
 
 It was all the more surprising, therefore, that 
 one day, when I was sitting in his little cottage, 
 he should come in suddenly, throw his cap impa- 
 tiently on to the settle, and, sitting down, bury 
 his face in his hands. 
 
 "I ain't got a bit o' heart to work, wife," he 
 said. "It don't seem to matter what yer catch is, 
 yer get nothing for it. Them as gets none is just 
 as well off as them that catches plenty. Why 
 should 'em make us pay for what dey loses on 
 others ?" And I could see, in spite of his efforts 
 to keep them back, the resentful tears standing 
 on his cheeks. 
 
 "It's just slaving, dat's what it is, and seems 
 to me the agents down here does just what 'em 
 likes wi' us. There ain't nowheres else to get any 
 supplies from, and they charges us credit prices 
 to make up for them as don't pay. Even when 
 you does settle you's account dey won't give you 
 52 
 
" The Copper Store " 
 
 no cash, and they 'tices you all they can to get 
 more credit." 
 
 I could say nothing that would help, for I knew 
 it to be too true. The truck system of trade al- 
 ways tells against the poor man, and when he is 
 ignorant as well, it spells to him nothing better 
 than slavery. 
 
 Now, Tom was always careful to "make" his 
 fish well. He knew that it meant a deal of differ- 
 ence to the price that it was worth if it was white 
 and hard, carefully cleaned and dried. So like 
 everything else he went at, he spared no pains in 
 the curing, and generally managed to pass it all 
 as merchantable, which is the highest grade 
 possible. On the present occasion he had just 
 taken his fish to his merchant's store, and was 
 very well satisfied with his success with it. In his 
 mind he almost saw the bigger boat he had so 
 long striven for. He saw himself seated in it, 
 going out farther than ever, "right to the 'offer 
 banks," and then coming home loaded, and the 
 surprise and joy of his dear wife as he tied up 
 to the stage, while he began to "pew" it up with 
 the sharp hoe to where it could be split and salted. 
 He was a man with an imaginative mind, 
 and though he scarcely would have said so, he 
 53 
 
" The Copper Store " 
 
 saw also in his vision of those days a time when 
 there would always be plenty to eat and drink, 
 thank God, and unlimited warm clothing for 
 ■ wife and children. . 
 
 < So Tom had ferHed his fish -to the, wharf, .and 
 thrown it down as .the cugtoin Js. -'He was full 
 of high hopes, as he watched it being culled, 
 and speedily enoujfh" stored iaway.. With not a 
 little pride "he had received from the storekeeper 
 a ticket of the ^weight 'and quality of the fish. 
 Then he went tip tthe wooden gangway- to : the 
 store above to get his account, arid order his win- 
 ter supplies. ' The ■^storekeeper, was very cordial 
 and almost rriade Tom take more goods. than 
 -he intended. 'For he had determined to be very 
 '"close"- this winter, arid to have enough left over 
 for nails arid iron work and canvas and rope to 
 •build the new boat. ' i 
 
 But, like many of the" fishermen, Tom had had 
 no schooling,' and was therefore quite unable to 
 read. vSo when he met a friend outside, "who 
 had a tidy bit of larning," he stopped him and 
 asked'^him to read what was on the paper. 
 
 Poor Tom. He could scarcely believe that 
 Levi Boyd was reading aright, as he laboriously 
 spelled out : "You owes t' store fifty-five dollars." 
 54 
 
o 
 q 
 
" The Copper Store " 
 
 "Me owes t' store? You'm sure?" 
 
 "Why, certain, boy; 'tis writ plain enough." 
 And then at the sight of the disconsolate face : 
 "You wasn't expecting no balance coming to yer, 
 was yer?" 
 
 Tom's heart was bursting with anger as Levi 
 picked out for him some of the prices — and ex- 
 orbitant enough they were. Salt was $3.00 a 
 hogshead. Flour was $8.00 a barrel. Molasses 
 was 80 cents a gallon, kerosene 30 cents a gallon, 
 while his fish ! Well, if the bottom had dropped 
 out of the fish market Tom wouldn't have been 
 more surprised. 
 
 Burning with indignation, he walked hurriedly 
 back to the store, where he met the storekeeper, 
 smiling as before. 
 
 "What's the matter, Tom, boy? Something 
 gone wrong?" 
 
 For reply Tom took out the bill and pointed 
 to the figures. " 'Tis the prices, sir ! Sure they 
 be beyant all." 
 
 "They're only the usual prices. You can see for 
 yourself if you like to look at our books." 
 
 "But the fish were every bit merchantable," 
 he insisted, "and you only gives me credit for 
 ten quintals o' merchantables." 
 55 
 
" The Copper Store " 
 
 "Come, come, I'm sorry if you're not satisfied ; 
 but the price of fish has fallen anyhow this last 
 week. And I can't find out now if what you say 
 is true, for your fish is all bulked along with the 
 rest in the store. You're too late now." 
 
 What could the poor fellow do more ? Might 
 was enthroned. He couldn't get his fish back to 
 prove his point, and so had to go home broken- 
 hearted and leave things as they were. 
 
 "No, wife, it's no good. Us may as -well take 
 it easy like others do. Us only has to pay them's 
 debts, if us works e'er a bit harder than others." 
 
 But she had seen discontent written in Tom's 
 face before he began to speak, and like a true 
 woman had already decided how best to counter 
 it. "Come, Tom, ne'er mind, lad, dey won't allers 
 have it all their own way. Dere's One above 
 wot knows all about 'em, and he'll put 
 t'ings right by'm bye. 'Tis no good for you's to 
 fight again 'em. Dey's got everyt'ing in dey's 
 own hands. Let's t'ank God we'm got enough 
 for de winter." 
 
 "Yes, maid ; but you knows I wanted to build 
 our new boat dis winter, and den next spring I'd 
 ha' caught two fish for one. But that's all 
 over now," he added. 
 
 56 
 
" The Copper Store " 
 
 "N'ar mind, Tom, so as us lives. What odds 
 about gettin' on ? I suppose that's not for the 
 likes o' we. Leastways, dat's what most dem 
 t'inks, and I t'inks so, too, now. We'm better 
 go on being content as we is." 
 
 After some time she got Tom quieted down, 
 and his restless spirit that had been chafing under 
 the undefined wrong done him (but of which he 
 was quite conscious), was able to thank God for 
 what was still left him. 
 
 We have had to say many times before, "God 
 bless the optimism of the women." Before I 
 left, the humble couple had knelt together at the 
 Throne of Grace. They had asked Him who 
 had seen the day's transactions to give them pa- 
 tience and grace to live honestly and to hasten the 
 time when men should love others in deeds as 
 well as in words. For, alas ! alas ! our storekeeper 
 and our agent were called "Christian" men. 
 
 It was after a series of such exprriences as 
 these that we were in the house of one Baxter 
 Webb, a fine, able-bodied, industrious fisherman. 
 His wife, a good, thrifty woman, always culti- 
 vated a nice little potato patch while he was at the 
 fishery. But this year it seemed as if everything 
 "was against them. One of our erratic summer 
 57 
 
•" The Copper Store " 
 
 frosts had nipped the potatoes, and, in spite of all 
 his efforts, Baxter's catch was small, and when 
 he blurted out, " 'Twas a poor summer. Doctor, 
 and I don't know what we is agoin' to do for de 
 winter," I could see there was some undercur- 
 rent of thought in his mind. 
 
 At last I guessed what the great question was. 
 What should he do with the fish he had ? Should 
 he turn it in to the merchant who had fitted 
 him out for the summer, or should he sell it pri- 
 vately and buy some food for the winter else- 
 where? There was only seven quintals in all. 
 
 Husband and wife sat looking into the fire. 
 The house was silent except for the breathing of 
 the six children, four of whom were stretched 
 out on the settle not yet undressed. The other 
 two were in a rude kind of cradle in the corner 
 of the little room. 
 
 Each knew what the other was thinking of, 
 for their eyes, roving now and again to where 
 the children lay, had met, been lowered, and had 
 met again. 
 
 Baxter at length broke the silence. "What 
 shall us do, wife ? De children must have some- 
 t'ing to eat. I knows the merchant can go with- 
 out better nor we, and de fish won't pay more'n 
 S« 
 
" The Copper Store " 
 
 half wo't we had ; and he's not goin' to gi'e us 
 any more, you bet." 
 
 "De Bible says, 'Pay what you owes and den 
 trust God for de rest ;' but it's hard to see de chil- 
 dren starving." 
 
 "Well, maid, us wants to do de right. But it 
 seems to me they allers gets their share out o' 
 we anyways." 
 
 "Yet you know it says that He won't let one 
 o' His children fall to the ground wit'out His 
 knowing it." 
 
 "Well, well, I'll carry the fish down to M^ — . 
 I'll tell him how we is off and ask him to gi'e us 
 some t'ings for de winter. I can't do fairer nor 
 dat, and den if he don't, why we must just trust 
 de Lord to feed us, dat's all." 
 
 So on the morrow he put it all in his boat and 
 carried it to the agent. Promptly he accepted it 
 on account, and even praised poor Baxter for 
 his honesty in bringing all that he had. 
 But when, at length, Baxter stammered out : "It's 
 all we has for de winter," the agent simply said, 
 "I'm sorry to hear that, for there is still a balance 
 against you upon our books. I'm afraid you'll 
 have to do the best you can." And then he 
 turned away to speak to another man. 
 59 
 
^ " The Copper Store " 
 
 Poor Baxter. He could no more ask for mercy 
 from this man than he could from the big seas 
 that he so often faced with a lighter heart than 
 he now turned homeward to greet his wife with. 
 
 His good wife, who had anticipated the result, 
 met him with the most cheerful smiles. "I see 
 you has got nothin', boy. But dere, n'ar mind. 
 We has a few potatoes, anyhow, and maybe 
 God'll send somet'ing along." 
 
 God did send something along, in the form of 
 devoted brotherly neighbors, or Baxter and his 
 wife and family would not now be living to tell 
 the tale, for it was a winter of sore trial. The long 
 fall prevented any chance of remunerative labor, 
 and the deep snow made work in the woods im- 
 possible. By Christmas the little stock of butter 
 and molasses was exhausted, and for some time 
 Baxter and his wife had been on very short 
 allowances of flour. At length even that was 
 gone, and nothing but a few potatoes and some 
 salt herring remained. Even Baxter's strong 
 nature couldn't stand it long. He got thinner 
 and thinner, and eventually fell seriously ill. 
 
 The simple, kindly neighbors soon found out 
 the cause of Baxter's illness ; though till then he 
 had concealed it from'them, for they were nearly 
 60 
 
" The Copper Store " 
 
 as badly off in the matter of provisions as he was 
 himself. 
 
 But now they clubbed together, and by a panful 
 from this house and a panful from that, two bar- 
 rels of flour were collected and brought to the 
 humble family. The children could scarcely un- 
 derstand the need of so much generosity. For 
 all the time the parents had been starving them- 
 selves the children had never been allowed 
 to want, even though it was only flour. 
 By the time Baxter was nursed back to 
 his strength, it was possible to get to 
 work in the woods, and in a fortnight, by 
 steady, hard work, he had brought out enough 
 logs to pay for his two barrels of flour, for he 
 was determined not to be unnecessarily indebted 
 to the others. At length the spring days brought 
 a little work incident to the return of the fishery, 
 and so also a little more food and comfort into 
 the home. The long, dreary winter, full of trial, 
 hardship and the truest heroism, was at an end. 
 Yet all it seemed to leave in the mind of this de- 
 voted couple was the sweet memory that "de 
 children never wanted all winter, t'ank God." 
 
 Soon after this a meeting of the fishermen was 
 held in our harbor and, of course, as it was 
 6i 
 
" The Copper Store " 
 
 strictly private, it soon leaked out that the sub- 
 ject was the formation of a co-operative store. 
 
 I was not surprised, therefore, a day or two 
 later to be asked : "Is dat true, Doctor, that you'se 
 be goin' t' start a copper store ? I doesn't under- 
 stand what dat be." 
 
 It was, indeed, a long business explaining to 
 these men, bom and reared on the truck system, 
 that any other way to live was possible. They 
 could not stretch their minds to imagine a cash 
 basis of trading. 
 
 Old Uncle Ephraim, who was alleged to have 
 "a stocking full o' t'ings somewheres," rose in the 
 meeting to ask : "Where'll us get salt from in t' 
 spring ?" 
 
 "Why, buy it at the store, of course." 
 
 "You doesn't mean pay cash for salt, does 
 you?" 
 
 "At this store things must be paid for in cash." 
 
 The old man simply collapsed with a woe- 
 begone expression on his face. 
 
 Then Uncle Alfred, another of our village 
 savants, arose and wanted to know, "What'U us 
 do if it be a bad fishery. Doctor? Where'll us 
 get a winter's diet?" 
 
 "The traders ^n't give you food or salt for 
 62 
 
" The Copper Store " 
 
 nothing; they don't run a charity," was the an- 
 swer. 
 
 "You really pay for all you have. Only you 
 pay a great deal more, because you pay credit 
 prices, and now the man who does well pays for 
 the man who does badly. But you can see from 
 the number of traders there are that everything 
 is paid for and we really do earn enough to live 
 on. 
 
 My friends are not talkers, and it was difficult 
 to get them on their legs at all ; but the burden of 
 the next speech was understood to be : "Us reck- 
 ons t' Gov'ment'll have to stand t' it." 
 
 Another wiseacre chimed in that he didn't 
 see what the Government was for, if it wasn't 
 to keep poor people from starving. The Gov- 
 ernment has all along been looked upon as a 
 kind of inexhaustible supply intended to send 
 along unlimited barrels of flour, whenever the 
 traders would not give a man a winter's diet, 
 and often enough, also, to pay the traders when 
 they had given it. 
 
 The only answer possible to these remarks 
 was: "If people cannot earn enough to live on, 
 then they must get out and try and live some- 
 where else," 
 
 63 
 
" The Copper Store " 
 
 One man, though he would have done any- 
 thing to get clear of the traders, being a doubt- 
 ful soul, suggested, "You says the copper store 
 won't give us no credit in the fall ; but perhaps 
 the traders may give us," the deduction being 
 the old system is best. 
 
 The crucial point was arrived at when old 
 Skipper Matt, who had been an over-sea sailor 
 in his day, and "knowed a thing or two," asked, 
 "If salt is one dollar a hogshead in St. John's, 
 will the store charge $2.40 for it ?" When there 
 seemed to be a prospect of reducing the prices at 
 present in vogue all hands voted for the "cop- 
 per store." 
 
 So the end of it was the formation of the 
 "White Bay Co-operative Store," with thirteen 
 members, who were unitedly able to allow $85.00 
 in cash for the capital. Naturally enough, we 
 had to invite some outside shareholders, and this 
 we of the Mission arranged. In the fall the first 
 consignment of goods was sent down. I have a 
 copy of that first order now before me as I write. 
 To me it is a precious, though a humble, docu- 
 ment. We could not afford a large stock, so we 
 asked Uncle Alfred how much he would expect 
 to pay for with fish that he could honestly Call his 
 64 
 
" The Copper Store " 
 
 own, and was not owing to the trader. This we 
 added to the amount that Uncle Ephraim would 
 need, and so to Skipper Tom's and the others. 
 Alas ! some already owed all they had and more 
 besides. So these could not begin with the co- 
 operative store till next year, though they all 
 said they would live on grass in the spring to 
 avoid having to incur debts on credit. And I 
 verily believe some of them did. At length, when 
 the list was completed we found we could pur- 
 chase still a small stock to have on hand, which 
 those who catch fur in the winter, and so get 
 money, could purchase from. 
 
 We had next to arrange for some means of 
 getting the co-operative fish to the market. This 
 was not easy, as naturally the traders, who had 
 carried it for us before, could scarcely be expected 
 to freight for us now. We arranged to pay 
 our bills by checks, the three members who 
 wrote best each signing their names on them, 
 like a proper finance committee. This system, 
 however, we abandoned later, as it was a great 
 labor, few though the checks were. And, more- 
 over, when the three names were accomplished 
 they had strayed all over the check till the 
 amount was almost illegible. So we appointed an 
 65 
 
" The Copper Store " 
 
 agent in St John's instead, who helped us also by 
 keeping our accounts for us. 
 
 Next spring came the crisis with the traders. 
 No one who had joined the store could get sup- 
 plies from them, and some could not afford yet 
 to buy for cash. None wished it known, there- 
 fore, who the shareholders were, and every man 
 who put in a share had his name in blank and a 
 number issued instead on his paper. The goods 
 were stored in an old house lent for the oc- 
 casion, and there was no external sign of the store 
 at all. However, that, too, was soon to be 
 changed, for as soon as we began to see our way 
 a bit clear we painted up all across the house, 
 "White Bay Co-operative Store." 
 
 In order to get a photograph of the first Labra- 
 dor co-operators we had to get a group of all the 
 able-bodied men together, so that the real mem- 
 bers were not recognizable. One man had to be 
 known visibly as the manager. And for that post 
 we chose a promising young fisherman who could 
 write. He kept the store open only when it was 
 necessary, spending the rest of his time fishing 
 like the others. 
 
 Many are the adventures the store met with in 
 its career. Its misfortunes were largely due to 
 66 
 
" The Copper Store " 
 
 our lack of wisdom. But we have slowly reme- 
 died this in the school of experience. 
 
 Now ten years have rolled away since first the 
 store started. A fine schooner of our own, the 
 Co-operator, has been added to bring down our 
 goods and take our fish to the market. Slowly, but 
 steadily, the store has grown in strength. The 
 men have grown in independence. The church, 
 the school and the houses have grown in efficiency 
 and comfort. There is not a man now in our har- 
 bor but has a dollar to his name, and a dollar in 
 the store as well. Half-clad and half-naked chil- 
 dren have almost entirely disappeared. More- 
 over, three or four other little stores have grown 
 up along the shore, and may almost be called its 
 babies. They are small, it is true, but texts are 
 small things, and these are preaching a valuable 
 sermon, especially with regard to the price of 
 goods. 
 
 It was only a day or so ago that Uncle Alfred 
 confided to me: "If ever the store goes down. 
 Doctor, we'll all have to leave White Bay." 
 
 In the course of time Ulicle Ephraim has had 
 
 a stroke. His years are long ago lost in the long 
 
 tale of decades. I went into his cottage a while 
 
 ago, after a winter's absence, and found him 
 
 67 
 
" The Copper Store " 
 
 propped up by the fire in his old home-made arm- 
 chair. 
 
 "Well, Uncle Ephraim, how goes the world 
 with you?" I asked. 
 
 "I am half alive yet, thank God," he answered 
 with a bright smile. 
 
 "Are you sorry your time with us is nearly 
 run out ?" 
 
 "No, no, Doctor, not sorry, thank God. 
 The Lord have 'lowed me to see good times^- 
 and some hard times, too, praise His name. But 
 at the end He have let me see this here copper 
 store, which have given many of we folk a 
 chance we never 'lowed we should live to see 
 come to White Bay again." 
 
 The gospel, as we interpret it in relation to the 
 economics of the fishermen, has taken the form of 
 industrial work of various kinds. We do not 
 think it is merely the serving of tables. 
 
 m 
 
THE PREACHER 
 
THE PREACHER 
 
 It was the second week in June before we 
 were able to leave St. John's for our sum- 
 mer's work. Our little steamer had been late in 
 shaking off the bonds of winter and getting out 
 of her cradle of ice. At last the southerly wind 
 had brought some warmer weather — the deep 
 snow on the ice had melted off and we had been 
 able to saw round the ship with the huge pit- 
 saws, and to cut a channel for her to open water. 
 Then the westerly winds, marking the advent of 
 our summer, had driven the great ice fields off 
 the coast and we, prisoners of the iron frost of 
 the north, had become free again. 
 
 At one of the harbors, among the many who 
 had come aboard for medicine, for news from 
 the south, for advice or help, or merely to give 
 us welcome, was one man who wanted a passage 
 to his home in the north. He was a man well 
 known and loved all along our northern coast. 
 He had come south on a mission trip and was 
 now returning to be ready for the great rush of 
 71 
 
The Preacher 
 
 the fish when they first strike the land. With 
 the advent of winter the cod seek the deep water, 
 where the temperature does not vary so greatly 
 with the seasons, and again, as the water gets 
 warmer in spring, when the smaller fish swarm 
 to the landwash to spawn, these great, huge- 
 mouthed, hungry fish come rushing in in count- 
 less thousands, so that even the surface of the sea 
 is alive at times as far as one can see. Thi^ is 
 the fisherman's harvest, and it behooves every- 
 one to be ready when the time arrives, for in a 
 day then a man can catch as much as in a month 
 at other times. 
 
 But our new friend was not only a fisher of 
 fish, seeking for the catch that perish in the catch- 
 ing. Living on a lonely, isolated coast, where 
 there is no regular ministry, he had felt the need 
 in his soul for the gathering together for prayer 
 and mutual encouragement in the Christian life; 
 and so, in the slacker seasons, as he could he 
 would make time from the duties of his home 
 and journey alone along the coast for long dis- 
 tances, assembling his fisher brethren where they 
 would join him, that they might rejoice in the 
 sure and lively hope of something better than 
 the poor life they could at best expect here be- 
 72 
 
The Preacher 
 
 low. To enjoy the fellowship and help which 
 comes of common service, he had sought and 
 obtained a lay reader's license of the Episcopal 
 Church, and his visits were keenly looked for by 
 the poor folk of his extended parish. 
 
 A cheerful companion he was, as we journeyed 
 north together, brimming over with stories of 
 his own experiences, as men of the sea will, whose 
 memories for details have not been swamped 
 with the reading of endless papers and magazines. 
 
 "I had a terrible experience here once," he 
 said, as we passed a tiny cove, which, though open 
 to the Atlantic, afforded shelter enough to allow 
 two or three families to keep boats there, which 
 they hauled up high out of reach of the sea on 
 rudely constructed slipways every time they 
 came home from fishing. As we passed we could 
 see the poor-looking wood houses perched on 
 high props to make level space enough to spread 
 even their small floors on. The naked cliffs above 
 seemed determined to shoulder humanity into the 
 sea, and these homes of men, equally deter- 
 mined, seemed to be clinging to their feet like 
 limpets. 
 
 "What was the experience you had ?" I asked. 
 "It doesn't look like a place for excitement." 
 1Z 
 
The Preacher 
 
 "Well, I had to try and comfort two poor souls 
 who were nearly beside themselves," he said. 
 "They were only poor folk, as you can guess any 
 would be who lived here; but they had three 
 dear little children, and they lived up there on the 
 north side of the cove. It was just about this 
 time of year and the fish was in in plenty, so 
 that they had the stage loaded waiting to be split 
 and salted — ^and you know there's no time to be 
 lost, Doctor, if we are to make good fish, once 
 it's ashore. John, of course, wanted to go out 
 again as soon as possible for more fish, while it 
 was still to be had near the land. So he and his 
 wife went down early into the stage to finish off. 
 The three children, who were almost babes, were 
 left in the house in bed. It so happened that their 
 house was hidden by the rocks from their stage; 
 It seems they didn't hear or see anything odd 
 till after they were all through with the fish. 
 When at last they went back to where the house 
 had been, it was all gone— only a few smoking 
 ashes were left and a few charred remains. Three 
 as fine babies as ever you saw. Doctor — all gone 
 — ^and everything else that belonged' to them — 
 not a stick left. Yes, it was a hard thing to make 
 them feel that God did really love them — a terri- 
 74 
 
The Preacher 
 
 ble experience. You see they hadn't been ready 
 to let the children go — that was the trouble. Doc- 
 tor — no, not even if God Himself wanted them." 
 He was a strong man, this modern fisherman 
 disciple — ^his fine figure developed and hardened 
 by years of battling with elements which permit 
 no weakling powers to wrest a living from their 
 reluctant grasp; his face, seamed and bronzed 
 with exposure to sea and frost, yet shone with 
 that beauty of love for his fellows, with which 
 artists of all ages have tried to illuminate their 
 pictures of our Saviour. It was the brave, strong 
 soul within the man that made it a privilege to 
 have his company, as we carried him north to 
 his home again from yet one more of his unas- 
 simiing ministries of mercy. Off the harbor 
 that he lived in we stopped our vessel, while he 
 once more clambered down into his little boat, 
 that we had been towing behind us. There was 
 a sense of true brotherhood that ran through 
 one's very heart as we shook hands over the rail. 
 After the rope was let go, as I watched him pull- 
 ing in towards those forbidding cliffs, now rising 
 on the crest of the great Atlantic swell and now 
 again disappearing from view, all unconscious 
 of the true hero's part he was playing, my 
 75 
 
The Preacher 
 
 thoughts wandered' unconsciously back to Him 
 who once loved so much to go about doing good 
 among just such humble fishennen, in just that 
 unpretentious way, He also all forgetful of 
 Himself, and I wondered. What is the best that 
 life has to offer ? Is it not to be won only through 
 
 sacrifice ? 
 
 * * * 
 
 Once more the season had gone by. In the 
 mission ship we had visited as far north again 
 as the lonely beach on which we had once found 
 our little Eskimo child. We had seen much sor- 
 row, as well as much joy, and had been grateful 
 for many opportunities for commending the Mas- 
 ter's service in many ways. But now the ad- 
 vent of the early snows of winter, and the ice 
 forming in the more quiet inlets had driven the 
 fishing vessels south once more. Lingering to 
 say a last good-bye to our fellow-workers, who 
 were soon to be frozen in and shut off from us 
 for at least seven months, the mission ship was 
 now the "keel of the Labrador," the last to 
 leave it. 
 
 Our last point of departure was to be a place 
 called Red Bay, where we were fostering a small 
 co-operative store, to fight the villainous truck 
 76 
 
The Preacher 
 
 system that was impoverishing our fisherfolk 
 and destroying their independence. As we lay 
 in the harbor chatting with many friends whose 
 boats had been alongside almost before our 
 chains had done running through the hawse 
 pipes, one fisherman, producing a soiled piece of 
 paper from his pocket, asked me, "Can you make 
 head or tail out of that, Doctor?" It was a piece 
 of a letter which had evidently been wet, and 
 the ink was smeared over the page, so that it 
 was impossible to decipher it. 
 
 "No, George, I can't — nor any one else, either, 
 I should say. Why, where did you get it ?" 
 
 "Well, Doctor, two days ago I was down 
 after my nets at Green Cove, and I thought I 
 saw a boat against the cliffs, just inside the point. 
 It had its mast up, and the sail was flapping loose 
 in a queer sort o' way, so I thought I would go 
 over and see if anything was the matter. It was 
 calm at the time, and the boat was just bumping 
 against the rocks. 
 
 "When I got near, I found there was no one 
 in the boat, and that the painter was hanging 
 loose over the side. You can guess I was a little 
 scared, for when I started to haul in the slack 
 of the rope I found it was fast to a man's leg ; 
 77 
 
The Preacher 
 
 just by a loose turn, however, that was all. I 
 hauled the poor fellow up on to the rocks, and 
 would you believe it, the body was quite warm, 
 so I turned to and tried if I could revive him any ; 
 but it was all no good, he was dead enough — 
 but he hadn't been dead long, that I'm certain of. 
 He was a stranger to all o' we. I reckon he 
 must have come from the other side," jerking 
 his finger towards the far-off shore on the other 
 side of the Straits of Belle Isle. "He must have 
 been drifted off somehow, for we've had south- 
 erly winds these three days — ^but it's only been a 
 capful, and nothing to blow any man oflF any- 
 wheres. That paper was in his pocket. A 
 trader's vessel was in here yesterday and he said 
 he reckoned he must be from t'other side, so he 
 took the corpse over to Kirpon, where he was 
 bound next." 
 
 It seemed an odd story, but odd things happen 
 every day at sea, and so I gave back the paper 
 and forgot the incident in the routine of work. 
 
 A few days later we crossed the straits and 
 ran into a harbor on the lonely shore near Cape 
 Norman lighthouse. 
 
 As I sat talking to a man who had just come 
 off with a gift of fresh fish for us, somehow the 
 78 
 
The Preacher 
 
 conversation drifted to the subject of the poor 
 fellow whose body had been found on the Labra- 
 dor side. 
 
 "You don't happen to know of any one who 
 has been missing from over here, do you?" I 
 asked quite unconsciously. 
 
 He looked at me curiously for a while, as if he 
 was puzzled at something in what I had said, and 
 then, apparently satisfied, answered: "Yes, I 
 does. Doctor; I knowed him well." 
 
 "Oh, you've heard then of his being picked up 
 in Labrador, I suppose? Who was it, and how 
 did he get over there?" 
 
 I could see it cost him a good deal to say any- 
 thing, and, thinking it might be a near relative, 
 I added: "Never mind, Andrew. Tell me an- 
 other time. Let's go ashore and see the baby." 
 
 "No, Doctor," he said. "It isn't that," reading 
 my thoughts in my eyes. "'Tis worse than that. 
 'Tis the preacher, and I might have saved him." 
 
 "Never, Andrew! You don't mean the man 
 I brought down this spring?" 
 
 For reply he merely nodded. 
 
 "Why, how ever did it happen? What <:ould 
 have brought him over there ?" 
 
 "He were down here after the last Spurt of 
 79 
 
The Preacher 
 
 fish were over, holding prayers. By hisself, in 
 his boat, as usual. He were in a hurry to be 
 home, as 'tis always busy that time o' year. Cer- 
 tain t'were getting lateish to be about alone, but, 
 seeing it was he, and he so accustomed to it, no 
 one thought there were any likelihood o' trouble. 
 Well, he went oflf all right about midday, but 
 about sundown Phil and I saw the boat about a 
 mile out lying head to wind. Phil said : 'What's 
 the preacher at now out there this time o' night?' 
 'Trying a line I suppose,' I answered. I didn't 
 think then of there being anything wrong, 
 though the boat certainly was drifting up with 
 the current. Well, just again at dark Phil and I 
 took a stroll up on the head, just to look out, you 
 know. It was a beautiful warm night, with a 
 little southerly air, and the sea was calm enough. 
 'Isn't that the preacher's boat out there?' Phil 
 said. 'She's drifted a long way. I guess the 
 preacher must be having a nap.* 'I suppose,' 
 said I, and then we both went down and turned 
 in. We didn't think there were any danger, 
 you see. 
 
 "I was worried a bit that night, and once or 
 twice a feeling came over me that I ought to have 
 gone out to help the preacher. Perhaps he was 
 80 
 
The Preacher 
 
 in danger. But it was too late then. Well, Doc- 
 tor, you know how I felt when I heard what that 
 trader had brought over, and then I thought o' 
 his wife and all those children. I tell you, Doc- 
 tor, there are some things a man will never get 
 out of his head. I know I never thought there 
 were any danger. I'd have given anything and 
 gone anywheres — ^yes, anywheres — to save that 
 man's life. But, you see, I never thought, Doc- 
 tor ; I never thought, and now 'tis too late." 
 
 The anguish of the poor fellow's very soul 
 rang out in the words, "I never thought. 'Tis 
 too late now." 
 
 Then came into my mind some words spoken 
 so long ago, yet the burden of which so many 
 have still to learn: 
 
 "When saw we Thee hungry, or athirst, or 
 a stranger, or naked, or sick, or in prison, and did 
 not minister unto Thee ?" . . . "Inasmuch 
 as ye did it not unto one of these least, ye did it 
 not unto me." 
 
 As I looked at the humble tribute of fresh fish 
 now lying on the deck I searched keenly also 
 the face of the man who had brought them. He 
 was the father of children. He had still oppor- 
 tunities of other service much needed on that 
 8i 
 
The Preacher 
 
 coast. Had God permitted his servant to teach 
 .by his death a much needed lesson, and to save 
 this soul? And if so, should we who know 
 Christ's way of saving the world, consider the 
 cost too great wherever it calls us? How is it 
 with us in our lives ? Are we seizing life's oppor- 
 tunities, or is the cost too great? 
 
 82 
 
WHEN WE LET OUR PILOT GO 
 
WHEN WE LET OUR PILOT GO 
 
 It was late in the month of February, when, 
 on one of our long winter journeys with the 
 dogs, we had been resting a few days in a small 
 settlement of some forty families. We had seen 
 those who were sick, among whom was a girl 
 on whom an operation had been necessary to 
 relieve her of much suffering. But now all 
 were doing well. 
 
 One poor fellow, who some years previously 
 had badly crushed his knee, and had not been 
 treated for it, had fallen into great poverty, and 
 his four naked children had been clothed, and 
 not a few others had been helped in the same 
 way. For gifts of clothing given for our poor 
 are kept against the terrible winter months. 
 
 Each night we had gathered together for wor- 
 ship in the tiny house set apart for that purpose, 
 and in this way not a few had been encouiraged 
 and comforted. 
 
 It was time to move on. Our dogs were well 
 rested after their long journeys of the previous 
 85 
 
When We Let Our Pilot Go 
 
 week. We ourselves were anxious enough to 
 push ahead, and to get back to our little hospital 
 and to the friends and patients awaiting us there. 
 But a "mild" or "warm flaw" in the weather had 
 set in, and it was impossible to travel till it froze 
 once more. At night, however, to our great 
 joy, the stars shone out brightly, and a fall of 
 many degrees in temperature sent us all inspan- 
 ning before daylight, and away with the first 
 streak of dawn. 
 
 The first few miles were glorious indeed. The 
 surface of the bay ice was like glass, and the 
 dogs went so fast there was no chance even to 
 get off for a run on the snow, to stir one's blood 
 and keep from freezing. 
 
 As we neared the open sea, however, we found 
 that a heavy sea, accompanying the easterly wind, 
 and mild, had broken the smoother ice into great 
 sheets, and that the constant swell had kept it 
 from annealing again in the night. We were 
 constantly passing over gaps many inches wide, 
 leaving open water visible. But our long, rakish 
 dog sleigh, or komatik, navigated them all suc- 
 cessfully. 
 
 At length, having crossed the bay, we 
 reached a perpendicular wall or cliff, which it 
 86 
 
When We Let Our Pilot Go 
 
 was necessary to ascend, for the sea ice beyond 
 had been pounded into porridge. Skirting along, 
 we came to where in summer a stream ran out 
 from a large lake above. It had worn back the 
 cliff a little, so here we tried to mount. A weary 
 task we found it, for it was now covered with 
 deep, ice-coated snow, and for every one step 
 we went ahead we slipped back two ! With snow- 
 shoes on standing was impossible ; without snow- 
 shoes every other minute one broke through the 
 crust and floundered up to one's armpits in snow 
 beneath. The dogs could get no foothold, either, 
 and it looked as if we could not advance farther 
 and must turn back. We had, however, brought 
 with us a trusty pilot, one who had trodden this 
 path before, and he volunteered to go ahead. 
 "All right, Ned, if you can go, we can follow, 
 that's certain!" Soon he was at work, cutting 
 with his axe footsteps in the crust of ice. Then 
 he would stamp them down, and if the snow 
 gave badly, beat them with the flat side of the 
 axe till he formed a solid shoulder of snow. 
 Meanwhile we just waited patiently down below. 
 Slowly and toilsomely he began to ascend, at 
 times seeming to make no progress. But even as 
 we watched he climbed higher and higher, our 
 87 
 
When We Let Our Pilot Go 
 
 confidence rising with his. It seemed easier as he 
 came nearer the top, and as the main difficulty 
 was left behind. At last he stood on the brow 
 and shouted down to us to follow in his footsteps. 
 He had taken up with him our long coil of fine 
 rope, and this he now lowered to us, so that not 
 only did his footsteps help us to rise, but the line 
 he held kept us from slipping back with our 
 heavy komatik. Even the dogs were quite clever 
 enough to recognize the value of the footsteps, 
 and, encouraged by his calling from above, they 
 succeeded in struggling upward. I was the last 
 to mount, steering the sleigh. But now the re- 
 peated pressure of the dogs' feet had made 
 "clever," hard-beaten holes, which helped me up- 
 ward like the rungs of some, ladder. 
 
 Once at the top, we struck away across a 
 fairly level plateau through the trees. The 
 trail seemed well marked, and we knew the 
 general direction. So we let our pilot go. At 
 first we rattled along at a great pace, and were 
 soon a mile or more on our way. Then the trees 
 grew thicker, and we had to halt now and again 
 to make sure we were on the path. The blaz- 
 ings on the trees became harder to recognize 
 as the melted snow from the recent mild had 
 88 
 
When We Let Our Pilot Go 
 
 frozen over them and hid many completely. The 
 traces on the trail also became confusing, and only 
 after much disentangling from trees did we at 
 length run out on to a long marsh leading down 
 to a wide lake, frozen over and deep under snow, 
 and as trackless as the Sahara. Thick woods 
 again faced us beyond the lake, and a valuable 
 hour was lost in vain search for any marks that 
 would tell us where we ought to enter this forest. 
 Now we were sorry we had let the pilot go, and, 
 being anxious to push on, we redoubled our 
 efforts. The "glitter," however, most effectually 
 concealed the blazings, and we were at last driven 
 to try to force a way of our own. But the at- 
 tempts ended each time in a thicket that no dog 
 team could penetrate, and each time we had to 
 come back again as far as our long marsh, and 
 face the same inextricable tangle of virgin timber 
 growth. 
 
 "Never mind. Rube," I said to the driver. "It's 
 only ten miles out. We will have a good lunch 
 here, and then you can drive the dogs back and 
 come on with the pilot to-morrow. I'll walk 
 through with Deane to the harbor." 
 
 So after "boiling the kettle," Dearie and I set 
 out "light," expecting to reach our harbor with 
 89 
 
When We Let Our Pilot Go 
 
 ease in a couple of hours. But we were reckon- 
 ing without our host. Hour after hour went by. 
 On and on we wandered, now up to the top of 
 a hill to get a view, after painfully struggling 
 with the deep, soft snow among the trees, 
 now taking off our rackets and climbing an icy 
 tree to see if we could tell where we were. All 
 snow-clad hilltops seemed alike, every frozen lake 
 and rivulet seemed to curve away from our di- 
 rection. Drogues of thick wood, trackless 
 wastes of barren, wearisome climbs and neck- 
 breaking descents, always just anticipating suc- 
 cess, always it seemed doomed to failure. We 
 were out of the track, and no help was to be had 
 anywhere. At length, worn out, we cut down a 
 thick spruce and tried to light a fire, while we lay 
 down and rested our weary limbs. But the ice 
 would not let us make a fire, no dry wood being 
 discoverable in the dark. The frozen boughs of 
 the bed we made only helped to freeze further 
 the moisture in our clothing, caused by the vio- 
 lent exercise we had been taking. We had fin- 
 ished our food before dark. I had never faced 
 a night with such misgivings as to what its issue 
 for us might be. Getting to the harbor for us 
 seemed hopeless. But as it was impossible to rest 
 90 
 
When We Let Our Pilot Go 
 
 we. had no alternative but to get up and 
 wander on. 
 
 Suddenly my comrade shouted out. "What is 
 it?" I answered; "What have you found?" 
 
 "Footsteps," he said. "Some one's racket 
 tracks." 
 
 "Which way are they leading?" 
 
 He struck a match and looked at our pocket 
 compass. "North by east," he said ; "that should 
 be our direction." 
 
 "Do you think we can follow them ?" I asked. 
 
 "We can try anyhow," he replied. 
 
 You can imagine how carefully we followed 
 those tracks. Now feeling for them with un- 
 gloved hands, as we passed through the darker 
 places, now and again being even forced to light 
 another tiny match. Slowly, painfully, carefully, 
 we followed on and on. 
 
 "We are descending to the sea, it seems," 
 I thought, for the descent was now very 
 rapid, and we more than once fell, our 
 large snow-shoes catching on partly covered 
 stumps or rocks. Once we walked straight into 
 a wall of snow. In the dark it looked like an 
 opening in the wood. Many times we had to 
 feel our way, with eyes tightly closed, for the 
 9' 
 
When We Let Our Pilot Go 
 
 projecting boughs stuck into our faces before we 
 saw them. At last we were on the level. The 
 rough "ballicater" ice by the sea edge warned us 
 of our position. We had descended a gully to 
 the landwash at the foot of the clififs. There was 
 no passage either way. We had been uncon- 
 sciously following a trapper's footsteps on his 
 wanderings. Another match and the compass 
 proved it beyond a doubt. 
 
 There was nothing for it but to climb the cliff 
 again. Here was perhaps the only time courage 
 was needful. To retrace is always harder, to 
 say : "I will try yet once more." 
 
 "No time to be lost," shouted my comrade. 
 "Let's face it again while we have the chance. 
 It may go hard with us if we delay." 
 
 It seemed hopeless, I must confess. One was 
 tempted to waste time in vain regrets and to 
 think hard thoughts of the man who led us out 
 of the way. Yet had he known it he would cer- 
 tainly have regretted it as much as we did. 
 
 Just at that moment came the needed spur to 
 a fresh attempt — a sudden shout ahead. 
 
 "A light! a light!" 
 
 "Where? Where?" 
 
 "Right over the ice below us." 
 92 
 
When We Let Our Pilot Go 
 
 "Why, that's the bay, and I guess I know the 
 way now." 
 
 He had already mounted part of the hill again, 
 and from that point was able to see across. We 
 had somehow missed the light going down. It 
 had been there, of course, but we had blindly 
 passed it by. 
 
 It proved afterward to be only the tiny light 
 of a humble fisherman's cottage, out on the point 
 where no others are living. But it was a shining 
 light, and just for these very reasons was the 
 only one visible around the cliffs. 
 
 "Thank God for it," we said. 
 
 With fresh zeal we plied again our rackets 
 and wearied limbs, and were hardly once more 
 on the top when my comrade cried out : 
 
 "Another set of footsteps. Going the right 
 way this time. I am sure of it." 
 
 After our recent experience we kept repeatedly 
 watching the compass. That at least was correct 
 always. Surely we were on a path to where we 
 could get some shelter. 
 
 On and on we went. How far it seemed to 
 us may be judged by the fact that it was already 
 nearly midnight, and darkness had set in about 
 four o'clock. 
 
 93 
 
When We Let Our Pilot Go 
 
 Suddenly another shout from ahead : "Koma- 
 tik tracks; fresh, too," and then I saw my 
 comrade strike yet another precious match to 
 examine a tall stem by the wayside. 
 
 "Blazed," he shouted, "we are on the right 
 track this time." 
 
 And so it proved. For the clouds above broke 
 soon after we emerged from the wood on the 
 high land above, and there below us, with a 
 straight lead home, were the village lights — with 
 the tiny one that had been our salvation twink- 
 ling away far out in the darkness near the head. 
 
 As we spread our sleeping bags on the floor of 
 the humble hut we had selected to put up in we 
 said: "Surely to-day's experiences have been a 
 parable from life." 
 
 94 
 
"REPORTED LOST" 
 
"REPORTED LOST" 
 
 The Atlantic coast of Labrador stretches from 
 north to south almost six hundred miles. It is 
 swept along its whole length by the frigid waters 
 of the Arctic current. It is shut in for seven 
 months out of twelve by the relentless rigors of 
 winter. Not till June is it possible to penetrate 
 the ice fields that fend off all intending visitors. 
 The days of its brief summer are short to the 
 plucky fishermen who work their way north in 
 pursuit of the great shoals of cod. These fish 
 are distinctly influenced in their movements by 
 the changing temperatures of the water. As 
 winter approaches they retreat into the deeper 
 waters, where it is supposed that they lie more 
 or less torpid during the winter months. With 
 the advent of spring they again approach the 
 shore, "striking the land" first to the south, and 
 then farther and farther north. The movements 
 of the fishing fleets depend on those of King 
 Cod, so that from July to October the great bulk 
 of fishermen are away north of the Straits of 
 97 
 
"Reported Lost" 
 
 Belle Isle, and so also far from our little hospital 
 at Battle Harbor. 
 
 We decided, therefore, to build a second small 
 mission hospital, two hundred miles farther 
 north, and we chose Indian Island as the center 
 of a large group of summer fishing stations. 
 When the winter sets in, all the fisherfolk from 
 this region pack up and go south again, and 
 those in charge of this hospital do likewise. 
 
 It was late in October, and the snow was over 
 the land once more, and ice in all the bays. In 
 our mission steamer we were bound out of the 
 great fjord known as Hamilton Inlet. It was 
 getting dark and we were still twenty miles from 
 the entrance, when the watch called out, "There 
 is a small boat laying off, Doctor, and waving a 
 flag for us." 
 "Slow down, then, and let's see what they want." 
 
 Soon a boat with four hands was alongside. 
 "Can you carry us to where we can get the mail 
 boat. Captain ?" a tall fellow called out ; "We've 
 lost our vessel on White Island reef, and we've 
 no way to get back." 
 
 "Very well, get aboard ; but what vessel is it ?" 
 
 "The S. S. Sparrow, from Rodney Harbor, 
 belonging to Captain Flowers." 
 98 
 
" Reported Lost " 
 
 "Oh, the Sparrow, is it? Where did you say 
 you ran her ashore?" 
 
 "On White Island reef." 
 
 "Did she sink at once?" 
 
 "No, we had time to beach her ; but she's full 
 of water, and we've been living under a sail wait- 
 ing for the last mail boat from the north to take 
 us off. But it's terrible cold and there's no fire- 
 wood." 
 
 "Has Captain Flowers gone south?" 
 
 "Well, no, sir ; he's waiting for the mail boat 
 also." 
 
 "All right, go down aft and get some tea. The 
 hospital is full aboard, so you'll have to sleep 
 where you can — engine-room floor, I guess. 
 Haul their boat aboard there and lash it in board. 
 Tell the chief not to fire any more. We shall 
 anchor shortly for the night." 
 
 Our visitors appeared to be uneasy as they 
 saw us head off for the White Island and grad- 
 ually draw in toward the reef. And when at 
 length we had cautiously hauled in to four fath- 
 oms of water and let our anchor down, the 
 spokesman came to me and asked me : "What 
 are you going to do ?" 
 
 "Wait till daylight and survey the wreck," I 
 99 
 
" Reported Lost " 
 
 replied. We could now plainly see the wreck 
 lying on her beam ends. 
 
 A little later he came again and said: "We 
 want to go aboard the Sparrow, Captain, if 
 you'll let us, now we're so close." 
 
 "Sorry we can't allow it," I answered; "the 
 anchor watch will see that no one goes off the 
 ship till I do." Judge of my surprise to be roused 
 in the morning by the sound of oars, and to find 
 that our four friends had already thrown their 
 boat out again to leave for the wreck. Gur boat 
 was, however, in time to send them aboard again, 
 at which they grumbled greatly. 
 
 The fact was that Captain Flowers was 
 the keeper of a saloon that had given 
 rise to much trouble, and we had reasons 
 to suspect, knowing the coast so well, that 
 the Sparrow had been purposely cast away 
 for the sake of the insurance on her. 
 A cursory inspection confirmed our suspicions, 
 so we steamed on down to the hospital, landed 
 our sick and the shipwrecked crew, took aboard 
 a few useful implements and returned the same 
 night to the wreck. After a few days' labor our 
 efforts proved completely successful. We were 
 able to free the hull of water at low tide, and 
 
 lOO 
 
"Reported Lost" 
 
 found the leak was a large round hole, evidently 
 punched with a crowbar, and all the splinters on 
 the outside. This we succeeded in plugging, and 
 on the top of the next tide we floated our prize 
 and took her in tow. 
 
 A decision as to what to do next was soon 
 reached. We would anchor the Sparrow in 
 safety while we went over to see Captain Flow- 
 ers and tell him what we had found out and done. 
 Early next morning we called at the saloon and 
 told our story. The actual conversation will not 
 bear repeating. It ended by the wreck being put 
 up for sale, and by my buying it for fifty cents. 
 Solemnly we drew up the bill of sale, signed it, 
 had it duly witnessed, and I paid over a one- 
 dollar bill, receiving fifty cents change. 
 
 Two days later, with the help of the employees 
 of the Hudson's Bay Company, we had hauled 
 our steamer up on to the "hard," or beach, and 
 their shipwright had safely executed all necessary 
 repairs. We took the precaution to photograph 
 the damage. 
 
 And now began our long tow to the south, 
 for we had six hundred miles to go, and many 
 calls to make on the way. 
 
 Once in a breeze of wind we parted thje haw- 
 
 lOI 
 
" Reported Lost " 
 
 ser, but secured the steamer again, and, buying a 
 new hawser at one of our ports of call, set out 
 for our last long tow after four hundred miles 
 of the journey had been accomplished. 
 
 It was a fine afternoon in November when we 
 put to sea, but already late, and the winter night 
 fell very rapidly. The wind rose strong with 
 the night, and we were forced to steam fifteen 
 miles out to sea to round safely a cruel series of 
 breaking rocks off the worst headland on the 
 coast. By midnight a heavy sea was running and 
 we were obliged to go "dead slow," for the 
 Sparrow, wallowing in the heavy seas, would 
 first run almost over us, though she was at the 
 very end of all the warp we possessed, and then, 
 dragging behind again, the slack line would come 
 suddenly taut with a dangerous jerk. It was my 
 midnight watch below, and I seemed hardly to 
 have fallen asleep when a dripping, oil-clad figure 
 in my cabin woke me by shaking me and shout- 
 ing: "The Sparrow's gone, sir." 
 
 "Gone where?" 
 
 "Parted the hawser, sir." 
 
 "How's the weather?" 
 
 "Dark as pitch and thick with snow; it's a 
 dirty night, sir." 
 
"Reported Lost" 
 
 "Can't you see anything?" 
 
 "Nothing, sir." 
 
 "Very well ; put the ship about and heave her 
 to till I come on deck." 
 
 Rolling into those great swells, washed now 
 and again by the tail end of a sea, we seemed 
 to be a long while waiting for the morning. But 
 it came at last and there, sure enough, every now 
 and again, visible through the driving snow, as 
 she rose on the crest of the surging water, rode 
 the gallant little steamer Sparrow. 
 
 We worked up to her and lay by to see if the 
 weather would moderate, for it was impossible 
 to get aboard her in such a sea. But the signs 
 of the sky were all for worse weather and our 
 ship was small enough on a winter's night in the 
 Atlantic. So we were forced at last reluctantly 
 to abandon her and seek safety from the rising 
 storm under the nearest land we should find. No 
 one can tell our feelings as Ave saw the last of her, 
 riding masterless to fight alone the unequal bat- 
 tle with those seas. 
 
 After the storm was over our little mission 
 
 vessel spent three days searching those watery 
 
 wastes in hope that even yet she might bring 
 
 help to the little, vessel. But nothing was ever 
 
 to3 
 
"Reported Lost" 
 
 seen of her again, and the great, generous ocean 
 hid in its bosom the traces of yet another crime. 
 
 It was the end of November, two years later. 
 The country was under snow. The days were 
 short and the nights long and dark, and every 
 vessel that came in had a good coating of ice 
 about her decks, with shrouds that looked like 
 sugar, showing a sample of what was to be ex- 
 pected outside. 
 
 Every soul that could had left Labrador for 
 the winter, and the Labrador coast was already 
 wrapping itself in its impenetrable barriers of ice. 
 The mission steamer Strathcona had already gone 
 into winter quarters, and I was all ready to leave 
 for a winter in England, when a cablegram was 
 placed in my hand. "Barquentine Maggie re- 
 ported lost on Dusky Islands, Labrador. Please 
 investigate." It was from Lloyds, underwriters, 
 and therefore demanded attention. We had 
 seen the barquentine at anchor before we left 
 for the south. It seemed a queer thing that she 
 should have been on the coast so late. In the 
 official protest of the vessel's loss which we now 
 obtained from the shipping office, we found that 
 the ship had started on her voyage to the Medi- 
 terranean market loaded with five thousand quin- 
 104 
 
" Reported Lost " 
 
 tals of fish ; that while passing through a narrow 
 tickle the rudder chain had broken, and the 
 vessel broaching to had run hard and fast on 
 the rocks. Great efforts had been made to save 
 the ship, but all in vain, and though the crew 
 had clung to the pumps till the ship was on her 
 beam ends, their efforts had been in vain, and 
 they had been forced to abandon her to save their 
 lives. The wreck had been put up for auction 
 and sold for eighty dollars to our friend the 
 saloon-keeper. 
 
 Without seeing the vessel we could only ac- 
 cept the facts. To go down to investigate would 
 mean both risk and expense, for it would be 
 necessary to hire a steamer and take her six hun- 
 dred miles to the north so late in the year, while 
 the chances of saving anything seemed infinitely 
 remote. 
 
 Some said "Go and try." The majority said 
 "Don't." 
 
 However, we decided to try. So we hired a 
 small steam trawler, shipped a crew, taking a 
 diver and much wrecking apparatus, and left just 
 after dark on our voyage of discovery. Three 
 days later our little ship, a mass of ice, hove to 
 off Dusky Island. She was so coated that all 
 los 
 
"Reported Lost" 
 
 spare hands were constantly employed chopping 
 the rapidly accumulating ice from every exposed 
 surface. All night we drifted about, unable to 
 venture near, but at daylight we drew in toward 
 the land. What an exciting moment it was! 
 Would all our efforts be fruitless? 
 
 Suddenly a shout from the watch, and a joyful 
 cry of "There's her spars away on the lee bow," 
 greeted my ears. 
 
 "She hasn't much cant over, either" (is nearly 
 upright), said the skipper, as we drew in near 
 enough to see round the point of a big island. 
 "And what's more, no sea is going to get in 
 there to hurt her." 
 
 She was set up so high on the rocks, 
 and seemed so trim looking for a wreck, that 
 we were all mad to go aboard her at once. But 
 she was beset with ice, and after we had an- 
 chored as near as we could go, it took our boats 
 a long time to get alongside her. With no little 
 excitement we climbed her sides. Instead of the 
 confusion that a hastily abandoned wreck would 
 suggest, perfect order reigned on deck. Hatches 
 were not only closed, but still sealed. Evidently 
 no cargo had been jettisoned to lighten the ship. 
 Every door and hatch was neatly closed. The 
 io6 
 
" Reported Lost " 
 
 once broken rudder chain had been neatly re- 
 paired. The ends of such ropes as were left 
 were all well fastened. One block from the 
 dismantled running rigging which was loose on 
 deck, was carefully marked in pencil "topgallant 
 haulyard," as if some lubber who did not know 
 how to reset square rigging had marked it, with 
 the intention of putting it in its right place next 
 spring. But, oddest of all, only the starboard 
 pump was in working order, and the brasswork 
 necessary to work the other was on the shelf in 
 the round-house. 
 
 The statement that the ship was only aban- 
 doned to save the lives of the crew was a false 
 one. There was some water in the well. But 
 after thawing out the pumps and pumping for 
 four hours the Maggie was dry again. 
 
 No time was to be lost if we were ever to get 
 out again. So, while the skipper took sound- 
 ings round the ship to find the best way to haul 
 her off, the diver was sent down by the mate to 
 examine the damage to the hull. Meanwhile 
 another party worked with a boat at each hatch, 
 carrying the fish cargo over to our steamer and 
 so perceptibly lightening the ship. 
 
 By the following night, though the constantly 
 107 
 
"Reported Lost" 
 
 making ice bothered us a good deal, the big 
 anchors had been laid out and the line hauled 
 taut to the ship winches. The diver's sketch of 
 the ship's bottom showed she was only chafed 
 in the neighborhood of her forefoot, and that at 
 high tide she was now only aground forward. 
 It would be high tide next day at eleven. All the 
 fish had now been moved from forward. 
 
 At last the fated hour arrived. "All hands 
 on the winches," shouted the skipper. Tighter 
 and tighter the good warps strained. "Give it 
 her, boys, only one more." "Now — now, jump 
 on the levers" — and then a groan, a shiver, a 
 long-drawn sound, and the good ship once more 
 floated free. 
 
 To break into the store, rig the ship, revictual 
 her, and replace all things necessary for a long 
 voyage lost us yet another day. All night long 
 the watches were at work. At length, appointing 
 our mate as captain, and giving him two watches 
 for his prize crew, we tried the most serious task 
 of all, the "limbering up." The two great anchor 
 chains fastened to the main mast were drawn 
 through the hawse pipes and securely spliced to 
 the ends of our doubly twisted steel wire hawsers. 
 
 Slowly we towed out in the early dawn, a 
 io8 
 
" Reported Lost " 
 
 strong head wind blowing off the land. By 
 night a heavy sea was running and the Maggie 
 was plunging into it at the full length of both 
 hawsers astern — one-sixth of a mile behind us — 
 so that even the bright mast headlights we 
 had given her were invisible for long periods 
 together. 
 
 It was an eventful voyage for the next 
 three days. In spite of all our indomitable skip- 
 per's care, one of the hawsers parted, and was 
 only repaired after much maneuvering. Often, 
 as we learned afterward, the ship dived so heavily 
 into the seas that it was impossible for any one 
 to live on deck. Indeed, even her lofty jib- 
 boom was broken by her diving. But, to our 
 great joy, on the fourth morning we made the 
 land, and, hauling in under its kindly shelter, once 
 more reached our haven with "all our bunting 
 flying." It was a sad end for our saloon-keeper 
 friend. He was found guilty of "wilfully casting 
 away the ship with the purpose to defraud the 
 underwriters," and was sentenced to four years' 
 imprisonment. An old man already, he had only 
 time to serve a portion of the sentence before 
 death took him. The saloon was closed. It 
 has never been reopened. 
 109 
 
"Reported Lost" 
 
 Was it the gospel that was preached? Or is 
 the gospel of Jesus Christ only to be preached 
 with gloved hands? To us it seemed like fol- 
 lowing the Master into the courtyard of the Tem- 
 ple to cleanse it. It is true that if one gives 
 blows one must also expect to receive them. Is 
 it not possible we err sometimes on the other 
 side, being partly influenced by the consequences 
 we have to expect? Such things never influ- 
 enced the Master. He made no reservation — not 
 even a Cross. 
 
 no 
 
JOHNNY 
 
JOHNNY 
 
 The boy's name was Johnny Sexton. He was 
 the oldest son of a poor Roman Catholic fisher- 
 man living about eight miles from St. Anthony 
 Hospital, in a tiny cottage by the sea. One 
 winter day, when everything was ice and snow. 
 Johnny's father was away with his dogs getting 
 wood for the stove from the neighboring for- 
 est, and his mother had gone out to a neighbor's 
 house — which was some way off — for houses are 
 not near together where Johnny lives, in Labra- 
 dor. When his father came back to the house he 
 saw a number of children coming along over 
 the snow, dragging something with them. Alas ! 
 when they were near, he saw that they were drag- 
 ging Johnny by his head and one leg. His other 
 poor little leg was hanging down, broken, and 
 trailing along on the snow. He had fallen off the 
 "slide" or sleigh, which they had been using as 
 a toboggan on the steep side of the hill, and had 
 broken his thigh across the middle. In old days 
 (on,ly a few years ago) Johnny would have had 
 113 
 
Johnny 
 
 to lie for weeks in terrible pain, and could not 
 possibly have seen any doctor for months. Now, 
 however, his father could leave his little boy with 
 his mother, and hurry away over those eight miles 
 of hill and dale to St. Anthony to find the Mis- 
 sion Doctor. 
 
 It did not take him long to travel that eight 
 miles, yet, oh, how long even that seemed to 
 the poor fellow. The wondering dogs had never 
 known him to shout and huriy them along so 
 fast before. Gallop and strain as they would, 
 they could not satisfy their master. What could 
 it mean? 
 
 At length they topped the last hill, shot down 
 like an avalanche some six hundred feet on to the 
 snow-covered ice of the harbor, and a few min- 
 utes later, panting and exhausted, they were try- 
 ing to bury themselves in the snow in front of 
 the little Mission Hospital, to get out of the bit- 
 ing wind. 
 
 Was it only a piece of "luck" that the father 
 found the Doctor had not yet started for a place 
 some sixty miles to the south ? Why, right there 
 against the hospital was another big team of 
 dogs — ^two days they had been traveling, and only 
 half an hour before had arrived, bringing word 
 114 
 
Johnny 
 
 that the good priest at Conche was taken ill with 
 sudden bleeding, and wanted the Doctor in hot 
 haste. Yes, and even then, in the hall, was the 
 doctor packing the familiar medicine box, and 
 his man "Rube" stowing away some rough food 
 in the "nonny bag," in case of being caught out 
 during the long journey. Do you think it was 
 chance? or did the L,ord, who loved the children 
 so dearly, allow that anxious father to be "just 
 in time," even if for some good reason, known 
 only to Himself, He had permitted this little one 
 of His to meet this suffering? 
 
 "What's the matter, Pat, you seem to have 
 dropped from the sky, from the look of you ?" 
 
 " 'Tis an accident. Doctor. My Johnny's killed 
 himself. Can you come back with me at once?" 
 
 The distress was so evident, and the pleading 
 so heartfelt and urgent, there was no answer 
 but one. 
 
 "Yes, at once, Pat, of course." 
 
 "Here, Rube, sling this old box on the lend-a- 
 hand komatik, and lash it on well. It's a hilly 
 road we'll have to-night, and it's dark now." 
 
 "Go in, Pat, and get a cup of tea, and Rube 
 and I'll be ready in two minutes to race you 
 home." 
 
 115 
 
Johnny 
 
 There were great tears welling up in the poor 
 fellow's eyes, as, with a husky, choking, "God 
 bless you. Doctor," he followed the maid to get 
 some hot tea, which, indeed, he was badly in need 
 of, having been out in the woods since morning. 
 
 "It's a beastly monotonous life you live among 
 those people, isn't it ?" a wealthy man said to me 
 once, as if one could prefer to go to a theater 
 every night, or vary that with progressive card 
 parties and occasional dances ! 
 
 "No, I can't- say that I find it monotonous," I 
 answered. A "God bless you," with the fervor 
 of poor Johnny's father, is a fee that, once you 
 have tasted the sweetness of it, would alone rob 
 many of your days of much monotony. God grant 
 us all in those hours of loneliness that will come — 
 yes, will some day come to all of us — the gra- 
 cious echo in our heirts of His words who draws 
 near to comfort us in such hours, whispering, 
 "Ye did it unto Me," "unto Me" . . ."to 
 Me." 
 
 The barking dogs are soon straining at the 
 traces. It is dark, and only the hospital lights re- 
 flected on the snow enable us to be sure that 
 every knot is tight. There is a flash of steel as 
 Rube draws his big hunting-knife across the 
 ii6 
 
J 
 
 m 
 
 \- 
 
 z 
 o 
 
 s 
 
Johnny 
 
 stern-rope, checking the komatik to a driving- 
 post, and then the straining dogs leap off into the 
 night before ever a word is given them to start. 
 "Hist ! Hist ! Good Damson ! Haul in there. Spot ! 
 Haul in !" There is no need of lash or spur, for 
 the keen cold night-air makes the snow crisp and 
 braces their magnificent muscles, while the fact 
 that they know their food is still ahead of them, 
 makes every dcg anxious to get the journey 
 quickly done. . , . Now we are overhauling 
 Paddy's team. For, having impatiently swallowed 
 his tea boiling, he has gone ahead to give our 
 leader a line to follow. 
 
 "Look out, sir," we hear him shout. 
 "You'd better loose your dogs. It's terrible 
 icy on the cliff side going down to Crameliere 
 Bay," and Rube has scarcely time to lean 
 forward and slip the traces from the bowline be- 
 fore our faithful "lend-a-hand" shoots forward 
 at a pace no dog can hope to attain, and gathering 
 momentum each second warns us to cling tight, 
 if Johnny is to be the only one with broken bones 
 that night. Down — down — and down ! Now and 
 again a shower of sparks warns us that still some 
 snags of rock are jutting out through the gen- 
 erous mantle of the snow. But Rube and I are 
 117 
 
Johnny 
 
 now lying full length on the crossbars, as-close 
 to the ground as ever we can get, so that we may,, 
 not capsize or be shaken off. Fortunately' we 
 do not strike anything. I say fortunately, for we 
 went down with closed eyes ! The pace and the 
 darkness make open eyes only an additional dan- 
 ger in such a descent. 
 
 Pat's haste had not allowed him to use 
 even his drag of chain. Moments were hours 
 to him that night. What might not be happen- 
 ing to Johnny while he was away? 
 
 Our faithful dogs were leaping on top 
 of us almost as soon as the level bay ice brought 
 the komatik to a standstill. To them it was the 
 highest degree of good sport, and they were 
 showing their joy in their boisterous dog way, 
 tumbling over one another and us in their excite- 
 ment. 
 
 " 'Tis just there. Doctor," came echoing above 
 the whirring of our runners, as right below us a 
 single twinkling light came into view far down 
 the last hillside towards the sea. 
 
 Already they have heard us, those anxious 
 
 watchers, and we see the light blaze up as some 
 
 one brings it to the open door. " 'Tis welcome 
 
 you are this night, Doctor. Come in, sir — sure 
 
 iiS 
 
johnny 
 
 Rube knov^S where to get food for the dogs." 
 Come in — Johnny's a bit easier, thank God. But 
 it's -longing for you to come we've been since 
 Pat started." 
 
 No one coul'd mistake it. The thigh bone was 
 obviously Broken in the middle. For as the 
 child lay on his tack on the bench, the knee and 
 foot of the right side were at an angle with the 
 little fellow's body that made one "creep" to 
 look at. 
 
 "Get a plank, Pat, we must get to work 
 at once, for I must leave at daylight." Pat, 
 who was already clearing things away, a most 
 necessary proceeding in so tiny a room for so 
 many people, at once went out and brought in 
 his only plank, well covered with ice and snow. 
 It was not easy planing it smooth, still wet from 
 the thawing ice. But these men are the "handy 
 men" of this side the Atlantic, and with them 
 obstacles are merely things to be overcome. 
 
 Meanwhile Johnny has grown drowsy, and at 
 length has dozed off to sleep. In a minute or 
 so, however, an involuntary twitch wakes the 
 little fellow with a cry of pain. Fortunately we 
 could spare his father now, and he went and held 
 him in his strong arms to comfort him; yet as 
 119 
 
Johnny 
 
 soon as ever weariness overcame his fear the 
 child would fall oflf to sleep again only to wake 
 with a cry of suffering that made us feel miser- 
 ably slow-fingered as we toiled on, padding the 
 splints and getting all our preparations made. 
 
 Midnight had long passed before the lad was 
 laid out on the rude table to have his limb set. 
 
 The naked body of a well-formed little child 
 is a thing of tender beauty, and it would seem 
 a cruel task to inflict suffering purposely upon it 
 — even though meant in kindness, to set a broken 
 limb. But God had placed in the hands of the 
 Mission Doctor that which made it quite painless 
 to the child — only a few breaths of heavy sweet- 
 ened vapor and Johnny was off to a land of 
 dreams, where twitching muscles could not give 
 him pain, and whence even the straightening and 
 grinding of the broken bone could not bring him 
 back. 
 
 Two o'clock— "He'll do now, Pat, till morn- 
 ing. You must keep watch by him till he wakes. 
 I shall sleep here on the floor, and you will 
 call me as soon as he stirs. For I must be gone 
 at daylight, as I told you. My assistant will be 
 with you till evening to see the orders properly 
 carried out." 
 
 120 
 
Johnny 
 
 " 'Deed I will so, sir," said Pat. "There's no 
 fear that I'll close my eyes this night." He had 
 not seen chloroform given before, and he was 
 still not quite convinced that Johnny would ever 
 wake again. "No fear. Doctor — lie down — lie 
 down." Already his wife had placed their only 
 mattress on the floor in the corner. 
 
 "Just a word to ask God's blessing on the 
 child, Pat. There's only one God over Catholic 
 and Protestant." It was a very brief, but heart- 
 felt petition that went up to Him who marks 
 even the sparrow's fall. There ascended also a 
 word of real gratitude from all of us. For 
 should a doctor feel more joy if he had received 
 his reward in those things that perish, than for 
 the chance of a service to one of the least of His 
 brethren, who have nothing to render again. 
 God give us all, yet many times, that sweetest, 
 peaceful sleep which comes from hearing, as it 
 were, a curfew tolling: in our very hearts for 
 something ". . . done unto Me" ". . . done 
 unto Me." 
 
 The red glow of the early morning, reflected 
 from the boundless snow outside, was stealing 
 through the little window as I woke after a 
 sailor's rest of a "watch below." The dim outline 
 
 I2t 
 
Johnny 
 
 of Pat, sitting watching without a movement 
 by the side of his little child was only just dis- 
 cernible, for even the tiny flame of one little 
 lamp had been necessarily tempered to their 
 scanty store of paraffin. He turned at my slight- 
 est move, and, seeing I was awake, whispered, 
 "Johnny has just wakened up, Doctor. He has 
 slept like a lamb." 
 
 "Put the kettle on then, for we must be mov- 
 ing. I am to meet the priest's messengers at the 
 narrows of the long lake an hour after sunrise." 
 Already I could hear, outside, the wakeful Rube 
 calling the dogs from their hiding-places, and 
 also the calling of some other driver, taking his 
 team off betimes to the forest in the bay. 
 
 It was indeed a pleasure to find Johnny 
 wreathed in smiles when I went over to where we 
 had fixed up a level fracture-bed for him. I might 
 have expected the look of fear, for he could only 
 associate me with having pained him. But the 
 plucky little chap had forgotten his woes, and 
 was lost in the delight of cuddling the curly black 
 head of my faithful retriever. "No pain, eh, 
 Johnny?" No answer — only a look at his father, 
 as if to ask, "What does he mean ?" and he went 
 on playing with his new friend the dog. So I took 
 
 123 
 
Johnny 
 
 it that the splint fitted, and was able to insist on 
 Pat getting a nap "to oncst." 
 
 It was a glorious morning as we drove right 
 out of the harbor mouth over the firmly frozen 
 sea, galloping round the feet of the beetling cliffs 
 that form so ominous a landmark when the mis- 
 sion steamer visits this cleft in the hills, in the 
 summer time. 
 
 Human life is a long series of leaving things 
 behind. In one brief hour the hummocky ice had 
 shut from our eyes all sight of the harbor, where 
 "only a poor fisher-lad lay." 
 
 Pleasure derived from what we "get" in life 
 is a fleeting thing at best; it soon fades from 
 our fickle memories, and must ever fail to give 
 us back again the throb of delight we felt when 
 first we thought we owned something new Of 
 the valuables of earth. 
 
 But the memory of having well used those 
 valuables while we were stewards of them is a 
 well of joy that is everlasting. 
 
 May God give us the open eye to see this while 
 yet the talents are ours. 
 
 If there are no sumptuous menus, no silks and 
 satins, no lordly halls and such like things to ef- 
 face "the monotony of a life among those peo- 
 123 
 
Johnny 
 
 pie," there are at least many simpler pleasures 
 and ever with us the scope of usefulness for our 
 humblest talents, giving us the glorious pride 
 of knowing that we also are united, as all may 
 be, in service, not only with "those people," but 
 with the King of kings — ^in whose presence there 
 shall one day be joy everlasting and forever- 
 more. 
 
 On our return journey we called at Johnny's 
 cottage and took him to the hospital at St. An- 
 thony for a time, while we set up the limb in plas- 
 ter bandages. Now Johnny is well and running 
 nimbly as ever on the hillsidfe — soon to be able to 
 help Daddy with his boat and bring to Mother 
 his share of the harvest of the sea. 
 
 124 
 
"THE JOY OF THEIR LORD" 
 
"THE JOY OF THEIR LORD" 
 
 The mission steamer had just arrived off the 
 post of the Honorable the Hudson's Bay Com- 
 pany, half-way down the coast of Labrador. 
 
 According to custom, the broad blue flag of 
 the mission was floating aloft and the shrill 
 steam whistle had just sounded her arrival. 
 
 The order to "let go" had just been given to 
 the men at the anchor, and I was preparing to go 
 below after the excitement of bringing the ship 
 to her moorings. The chain indeed was still run- 
 ning out through the hawse pipes, when a man, 
 evidently in great anxiety and haste, pulled 
 alongside and jumped in over our rail. 
 
 "Oh, Doctor ! T'ank God you're here at last. 
 Poor Alice has passed away yesterday, and John 
 is lying terrible ill, and there's the five little ones 
 — and maybe, please God, you're just in time." 
 
 "Come, come, Harry, what's the matter? Is 
 it a cough ?" 
 
 "It never stops, Doctor. Night nor day, and 
 he spits terrible with it." 
 127 
 
"The Joy of Their Lord" 
 
 Now, we had seen some cases of pneumonia 
 coming up the bay, so "I'll be with you in two 
 minutes, Harry," was all I stopped to say as I 
 hurried below to get my emergency case of 
 drugs. Without further conversation we pulled 
 swiftly to a little wooded cove, and drew up the 
 boat. Following him through a long, winding 
 path through the stunted trees, I came soon to a 
 little house where only a month before I had seen 
 one of the happiest little families in the world. 
 
 My good guide's watchful young wife, a baby 
 in her arms, opened the door as we reached it. 
 
 "He's sleeping. Doctor, t'ank God. Maybe he'll 
 take a turn now," she said. "I've put the chil- 
 dren to bed lest their noise should waken him." 
 
 I knelt down in the darkened little room by 
 the sick man, and put my finger on his pulse. 
 The almost painful stillness was broken at length 
 by the young mother, who was evidently watch- 
 ing my face. 
 
 "Don't say it's too late. Doctor! Please God, 
 he'll get well now, won't he ?" and then a stifled 
 sob as she could read no hope in my face. 
 
 "All things are possible with Him, Annie," I 
 answered, "but surely He knows what will be 
 best for us all." 
 
 128 
 
"The Joy of Their Lord" 
 
 For even as the moments ticked by on my 
 watch the forefinger on the telltale pulse kept 
 time, saying plainly, "Too late, too late, too late." 
 
 There are times when the call for immediate 
 action leaves no opportunity for even one spoken 
 word of prayer. It was prayer alone that could 
 save this man now. So we three tried that rem^ 
 edy first together, not unmindful that where two 
 or three are, there He is. Well we knew it 
 then, even as we could hear in that deathlike 
 silence the breathing of the unconscious children 
 in the next room. Well has it been said that 
 "Christian Science" is the reaction against our 
 forgetting that Christ comes into the room with 
 the physician as well as with the priest. 
 
 But the issue was not long in the balance. Our 
 effort to aid nature in her last struggle awak- 
 ened no response in the wearied body, and slowly 
 the life we wanted so much ebbed away before 
 our eyes. 
 
 When I returned in the morning the door was 
 open, and the house was silent and deserted. 
 
 Husband and wife in their rough spruce coffins 
 
 were lying side by side in the little outer room. 
 
 The children had gone with the humble but 
 
 kindly neighbors to their little home across the 
 
 129 
 
"The Joy of Their Lord" 
 
 cove. Silence reigned supreme, except for two 
 jays fluttering about the chopping bench. It 
 seemed as if death's victory was complete. 
 
 I was engaged with other patients during the 
 day. But at sundown I heard Harry's voice 
 again on deck. 
 
 "Doctor," he said hesitatingly, "would you 
 bury the dead. 'Tis ten miles to where we — 
 our graves is — but we thought perhaps — " 
 
 "Indeed I will, and you may tell the people I 
 shall be starting in the mission steamer at ten in 
 the morning." 
 
 "Us'U never forget your kindness. Doctor," 
 he said. But just as he was leaving the ship 
 he came back once more, the painter in his hand. 
 
 "Doctor," he said, "there isn't a bit of black 
 for the children in the whole cove. Poor John 
 had fallen behind a bit of late at the post, and 
 anyhow us never looked for this." 
 
 "They shall have all there is aboard, Harry. 
 But it will take the women all night to make any- 
 thing out of it." With that we dived below, and 
 soon found coats and black stuff enough for the 
 emergency. 
 
 It was a sad cortege that next morning 
 steamed with flags half-mast up the fjord. It 
 130 
 
"The Joy of Their Lord" 
 
 was a poor, ill-clad crowd that gathered on deck. 
 The very care that had been so evidently 
 bestowed upon garments that had seen better 
 days, and yes, other generations, spoke most 
 eloquently of the continual struggle with a hard 
 environment. The bald, unornamented coffins, 
 sawed from our gnarled and knotted trees, and 
 blackened over with the meanest coat of paint, 
 were evidences of the little that stood to help 
 humanity in its fight for existence here, beyond 
 their own stout hearts and good right hands. 
 
 The real pathos, however, lay in the over- 
 whelming sense of vanquished aspirations. The 
 whole entourage seemed to whisper uncannily 
 to our poor friends standing round : 
 
 "It's only a matter of time. You must suc- 
 cumb soon. You can't keep the fight up long." 
 
 The very weather added to the harmony of 
 desolation. A cold, bleak wind was chasing 
 across a cheerless leaden sky, clouds burdened 
 with snow from the unknown north. The first 
 frost of winter had hardened the little soil there 
 was on those relentless rocks, as if anxious to 
 proclaim that it had no share in lending aid or 
 offering welcome, even when death had done its 
 work. Even two ducks, sole occupants of the 
 i3> 
 
" The Joy of Their Lord " 
 
 tiny bay, fled shrieking, as, bearing our toilsome 
 burden, we landed on the sandy beach. 
 
 At length the grave was dug, the last look 
 taken, the sand filled in, and around were left 
 only the few pitiful, half-clad mourners, shiver- 
 ing in the bitter blasts of wind that swept the 
 point, and weeping for what could never be un- 
 done. But in my mind were still ringing the 
 words of triumph : "Thanks be unto God, which 
 giveth us — ^us — ^the victory," while before my 
 eyes were five little children in black, standing 
 hand in hand by a lonely heap of sand, marking 
 the place where lay all that had been their pro- 
 tection from the cruel world outside. 
 
 How would our "reasonable" Master, who at 
 the cost of His own life had purchased our vic- 
 tory for us, have us translate the message of that 
 love to these His children ? How should we best 
 serve Him both now and always ? 
 
 By orthodoxy or by action ? By theory or by 
 practise? By faith or love? 
 
 "May here His servants serve Him, 
 May the cost not come between 
 The service that they render 
 And the service that they mean." 
 
 I fancied I could hear Him whispering now, 
 132 
 
"The Joy of Their Lord" 
 
 as he did of old: "Inasmuch as ye did it unto 
 the least of these my brethren, ye did it unto 
 me. 
 
 "Will, take the children aboard and let them 
 go down into the cabin, and see that Peter gets 
 them some tea. God bless them, they shan't 
 want the things that perish anyhow till they can 
 fend for themselves." 
 
 And so we took our first orphans. A long 
 letter to friends at home asking them to help me 
 with my children, brought me only a few answers. 
 One was poorly written, and not altogether 
 well spelled, but it bore a better recommenda- 
 tion. It was evidently the loving letter of a 
 good, motherly woman, and came from a heart 
 in which dwelt the mind of the Master. She 
 said: 
 
 "Dear Doctor: — Me and my husband would 
 like to keep a boy and a girl for the dear Lord's 
 sake," and she gave me references to men I 
 knew. So when we left the coast at the approach 
 of winter ice, and went south to put the mission 
 ship into winter quarters, Ernie and Bessie 
 went with us to a new home in New England, 
 
 Twelve months later I was able to take a trip 
 by rail and pay a long-promised visit \o the chi}? 
 133 
 
"The Joy of Their Lord " 
 
 dren. The train dropped me where the plat- 
 form ought to have been, in the dark about four 
 o'clock on a winter's morning. Everywhere the 
 snow was deep on the ground. There were no 
 houses to be seen, and the prospect was not en- 
 couraging. But soon I heard a cheery voice call- 
 ing: "Doctor, is it you?" and a moment later I 
 was climbing into an old farm sleigh, drawn by 
 a patient old farm horse. It was the new mother 
 of the children, whose characteristic energy had 
 brought her all these miles in the night to meet 
 me. 
 
 A long and wearisome drive it would have 
 been, for the roads were only called so from 
 courtesy, and were not materially improved by 
 the stupendous snowdrifts. Nor were the — well, 
 springs of our carriage as resilient as — ^but 
 there, never mind, the company of so simple, so 
 earnest a friend of the Master's would make any 
 journey short. 
 
 The wild reception that the happy children 
 gave me set my mind at rest at once as to 
 whether or not they were in the right place. 
 
 Soon, however, I was to be puzzled again. For 
 when morning came and I looked round the 
 house I found only a small group of new build- 
 134 
 
"The Joy of Their Lord" 
 
 ings. They were roughly put together, and by 
 the hands of this young couple themselves. The 
 reclaimed land was only small, and was being 
 hewn out of the backwoods by their own in- 
 domitable pluck. But beyond that, at breakfast 
 I thought I heard a stranger's voice, and sure 
 enough I was soon introduced to "our own baby." 
 
 As I drove back to the station, my cheerful 
 companion chatting away as before, my thoughts 
 would materialize into words, and when I asked 
 her: "What made you take two great, growing 
 children from far-oii Labrador? Surely your 
 struggle is hard enough without adding to it?" 
 
 "Well, Doctor, you see, Fred and me has been 
 two years way out here, and besides what every- 
 one else does we couldn't do anything for the 
 Lord. There is no Sabbath-school to teach, and 
 the church is so far away we seldom can go. So 
 we thought the farm would feed two more for 
 His sake. No, no. I wouldn't like you to 
 take them back." 
 
 Surely they were entering into the "joy of 
 their Lord." 
 
 "35 
 
UNCLE SILAS : FISHERMAN 
 
UNCLE SILAS: FISHERMAN 
 
 It had long been my earnest desire to have a 
 vessel for our work of3E the Labrador coast, large 
 enough to allow us to extend our voyages as far 
 north as Hudson Bay Straits during the months 
 that the sea was free from ice. It was imperative 
 that she should at least have auxiliary steam 
 power, to enable us to carry our gospel 
 to the most isolated and lonely dwellers 
 of the far north. For we felt that their 
 very loneliness would greatly enhance the 
 value of our visits. After all, the main 
 object in extending our work to Labrador 
 had always been to carry the message of God's 
 love in a practical and acceptable form to "those 
 that were afar off." To us it seemed that we fell 
 short of that end so long as there were still breth- 
 ren to be helped that no one reached. We could 
 not attain our object without some form of steam 
 power. So I determined to spend a winter 
 traveling and lecturing, trusting that He in whose 
 name we worked would direct us where we might 
 •39 
 
Uncle Silas : Fisherman 
 
 obtain so expensive an auxiliary. If it were right 
 for us to have this additional talent, we knew He 
 could supply it. If not, well and good. We at 
 least should have done our best. So when once 
 the ice of winter had driven us off the coast again, 
 in company with my colleague, a young Austra- 
 lian, I took tickets for Halifax, in Nova Scotia. 
 A few days before Christmas, 1894, we found 
 ourselves sitting opposite each other at breakfast 
 in a Canadian hotel, quite at a loss what to do 
 next. The trouble was that every one else seemed 
 to know exactly what to do. The room hummed 
 like a bee-hive with people hurrying about in 
 every direction. We did not know a soul in this 
 great North America. Which way to turn next 
 seemed an inscrutable problem. 
 
 "Let us call on the Prime Minister," said my 
 colleague. "If this were Melbourne, I know 
 he would do his best fdr us." 
 
 This would certainly not have been a promis- 
 ing step in London, but here there appeared no 
 reason against it, so the idea was accepted as 
 an inspiration. We found the great man at home, 
 and, to our surprise, we found also that a politi- 
 cian could be just as interested in any real ex- 
 tension of God's kingdom, wherever it might be, 
 140 
 
Uncle Silas : Fisherman 
 
 as we were ourselves. That so important a man 
 should at once put on his hat and be willing to 
 walk out with two young strangers for the pur- 
 pose of introducing them to his clergyman, and 
 that he should be willing to ask him tq help us 
 raise the money we needed, appeared to us as 
 direct signs of God's leading. So we were neither 
 of us surprised when, less than a month later, we 
 met a man who, during his early life, had lived 
 thirteen years in Labrador. He asked us what 
 it was we wanted him to do, and we told him we 
 wanted a steamer and some money to keep it 
 going. He said, "I shall be glad to give you a 
 steamer and a thousand dollars a year towards 
 the expense of the work." 
 
 So our steamer was purchased and fitted for 
 sea during the spring of 1895, and we came over 
 from England in July, as soon as the ship was 
 ready. We steamed her from Montreal down 
 the St. Lawrence and nine hundred miles along 
 the Gulf, ever eastward toward the Atlantic. 
 By the middle of August, full of elation, we were 
 slowly approaching our southern hospital at Bat- 
 tle Harbor, and we anticipated the excited wel- 
 come of our colleague who was in charge. We 
 were now only three miles distant, and running at 
 141 
 
Uncle Silas : Fisherman 
 
 full speed. Our brasswork shone like silver; 
 every rag of bunting floated aloft ; some patients 
 we were carrying with us were already on deck 
 ready to be landed as soon as we arrived; we 
 were thinking of nothing but the welcome that 
 awaited us, when suddenly, rip — rip — rip! and 
 our gallant little craft lay a wreck on a submerged 
 reef not shown on our chart. As the Atlantic 
 swell heaved in on the reef, the ship raised, stood, 
 and fell over again with each rush of the sea, 
 the sharp rocks splintering and grinding her 
 sides. We at once lowered the boat, and set our 
 patients safely ashore on the rocks, while we 
 who "stood by" got out a stream anchor and tried 
 to winch the ship off on the top of the heaviest 
 seas. Everything that was not fast was thrown 
 about and broken. It seemed to us all that her 
 days were numbered. Hardly, however, had 
 our cable come really taut when an extra swell 
 came sweeping along. Our little craft rose on 
 its crest, shivered for a moment, and then, with 
 a mad plunge, rushed forward over the reef and 
 swung to her anchor in deep water. Alas! our 
 shaft was broken. Our propeller was gone. Wa- 
 ter was rising in the well. And the only thing to 
 do was to walk over the cliffs to the harbor in 
 142 
 
Uncle Silas : Fisherman 
 
 which the hospital lay, and seek the help of the 
 bait launch to tow our wreck into a place of 
 safety. To arrive disheveled and alone, after 
 walking over those long and wearisome rocks, 
 was a humiliating experience. We had to assure 
 the wondering crowd that we had not dropped 
 out of the clouds, and that the new steamer they 
 had waited so long for was lying a piteous wreck 
 on the coast three miles away to the southward. 
 It was the longest walk I have ever taken, seeing 
 that the burden we had to carry with us was not 
 a physical one, but the weight of veritably leaden 
 hearts. The beautiful English sailing vessel 
 in which the rest of our small staff had just come 
 from England, was riding daintily in the road- 
 stead. The crew had been hourly expecting our 
 arrival, but alas ! not in the way that we at length 
 realized it. 
 
 Nearly four hundred miles of open ocean lay 
 between us and the nearest port at which we 
 could repair our damages, and there was no 
 means whatever of getting a disabled vessel so 
 far. So we set to work to caulk the leaks. 
 
 At length we sealed up the hatches, and made 
 fast to our staunch schooner, trusting that she 
 might tow us safely to our destination. 
 143 
 
Uncle Siks : Fisherman 
 
 A day or two later we parted company. The 
 skipper of the schooner sailed out into the At- 
 lantic with the laboring steamer dragging be- 
 hind, while I, with a sixteen-foot lug-sail dingey 
 called the Urelia, started along the coast for the 
 north. The boat being very small, I could carry 
 next to nothing with me, and my valuable assets 
 for the missionary journey were a kit-bag of 
 clothing, a case of medicine and instruments, a 
 small lantern with some slides, a Bible, a box of 
 food and a keg of water. The prospect of ac- 
 complishing anything, to our short sight, seemed 
 poor indeed. In my mind I was chafing and 
 fretting at the ways of Providence, and kept 
 saying to myself, "This summer is going to be 
 wasted." But I found that His ways are not 
 our ways, and that I had many things to learn 
 which I could never have acquired over the rail 
 of a smart steamer. 
 
 Everywhere the smallness of my outfit was 
 the best introduction to the hearts of the people. 
 The very fact that we needed the help of others 
 brought out just those very traits of their char- 
 acters which all our work aimed at reaching. It 
 opened the road to the message we had come so 
 far to deliver; the blessing of giving was 
 144 
 
Uncle Silas : Fisherman 
 
 conferred upon those poor people instead of 
 upon us; and we had to learn the lesson that 
 the blessing we wanted to confer came by our 
 having to receive of their poverty. In sharing 
 the daily life in the tiny poor cottages along 
 the coast we were able to appreciate trials and 
 troubles that we otherwise would never have 
 known of, and to appreciate the grim courage 
 and patient heroism needed to face adversities 
 that strike far deeper than the grosser dangers 
 of ice and fog and rocks involve. 
 
 It was already late in the season. The first 
 snow of winter had tipped the hills with 
 white. Young ice covered the fresh-^water lakes, 
 and even filled the gulches wherever the restless 
 sea found a little peace under the shelter of the 
 headlands. The shortening days had warned 
 most of the southern schooners to fly to warmer 
 waters, and the freighters' families, who are only 
 visitors to Labrador for the fishing season, had 
 already re-embarked and left for their southern 
 homes. There, even if they had failed to reap 
 that year the harvest of the sea and so when 
 winter came on would be unable to provide food 
 and clothing for the long eight months of inac- 
 tion, they would at least be in reach of supplies 
 I4S 
 
Uncle Silas : Fisherman 
 
 when occasion arose. Though a small comfort, 
 still that means relief from much mental suf- 
 fering to a father who has a wife and children 
 dependent upon him. For a dominant feature of 
 the deep-sea fisherman's character is his great 
 love for his little home on the land. 
 
 Meanwhile a southern-bound schooner, flying 
 before the fast-making ice, had picked me up 
 on my way. In true generous fisherman fash- 
 ion they had heaved to as they passed me, and 
 had swung me in on deck, boat and all. After 
 crossing a fifty-mile open bay, they once more 
 dropped me over their rail that I might visit a 
 tiny, out-of-the-world settlement of liveyeres (or 
 residents) of Labrador. My mast was already 
 up, and my lug-sail spread to the onshore breeze 
 before the crew of the Sparkling Wave had fin- 
 ished waving me adieu, as they tacked and stood 
 off, to make an offing before dark. Before I 
 made the land the sea was dancing merrily in the 
 long narrow gorge between the high cliffs that 
 make the entrance to Safe-harbor. However, 
 the staunch little Utelia carried me safely 
 through, and I was soon at anchor off the Uttle 
 houses. 
 
 "Where are you going to put up. Doctor?" 
 146 
 
Uncle Silas : Fisherman 
 
 was the first question asked, as the fishermen 
 came down to the stage and greeted me, as if 
 one was accustomed to choose, as a free hotel, 
 any home he pleased. 
 
 "Oh, take my things to Uncle Silas's," I 
 said, choosing the little cottage of a fine old fish- 
 erman that lay close to where I landed. 
 
 "What time will you be holding prayers. Doc- 
 tor?" seemed to be the most natural question 
 to ask next; for in Labrador services are not 
 relegated to certain fixed days. 
 
 "Why, as soon as tea is through at Uncle 
 Silas's," and then, according to my custom, I 
 started out to visit all around the little harbor, 
 while one "hand" went up to tell Uncle Silas to 
 boil the kettle. Uncle Silas, who is a widower, 
 was still busy putting the last finishing touches 
 to "the room" when I arrived from my little 
 tour, and his "son's woman" had spread her best 
 for the Doctor. As I "sat in" to the table a steam- 
 ing pot of tea, or what is sold on the coast for 
 tea, at sixty cents a pound, was placed before 
 me. There was no sugar or milk. Just an old 
 cup full of molasses, besides the loaf of soft 
 bread, graced the table. "The room" is that 
 part of a fisherman's house where all the best 
 147 
 
Uncle Silas : Fisherman 
 
 furniture is kept, and into which the children 
 are only permitted to peep when the schoolmas- 
 ter or the chance preacher comes along. Alas ! 
 the glories of the furniture of Uncle Silas' room 
 had become purely relative. 
 
 "You must excuse us, Doctor," Uncle Silas 
 said, as he came in, "sure 'tis the first winter we 
 has been without a bit of sugar, or morsel of 
 grease" — ^by which he meant butter. "There isn't 
 a sup of sugar in the harbor to-day ; even Will 
 Stevens couldn't reach to any this fall. The 
 fish seems to have just left Safe-harbor alto- 
 gether, these two summers. I don't know what 
 the folk'U do, 'deed I don't, wi' nigh eight months 
 before the traders are back. They say, too, that 
 Brian's little store will be closed this winter, and 
 the goods sent back to Newfoundland, as the 
 winter man there says he can't refuse to trust 
 people wi' things — ^not when he sees 'em starv- 
 ing. I don't know what folks are going to do. 
 Doctor, 'deed I don't. Not unless the good Lord 
 opens the windows o' heaven somehow." 
 
 As I sat and looked out over the harbor I saw 
 
 my snug little dingey bobbing to her anchor, 
 
 with her racy bamboo spars and her polished 
 
 teak wash streaks, and knew that she would bear 
 
 148 
 
Uncle Silas : Fisherman 
 
 me to where plenty reigned, and where anxiety 
 for the mere daily needs of life would never 
 be dreamed of ; to whera "give us this day our 
 daily bread" meant onlyjspiritual needs. I won- 
 dered how I had dared tolquestion in my mind the 
 love of God merely becanse He permitted me to 
 lose my comfortable stcBmer. Often since I 
 have wondered how He can abide our selfishness. 
 As the people g^athered lo prayer I could see 
 written in their faces the knxiety they felt, and 
 in their clothing the fact mat "ne'er a stitch o' 
 new had come to Safe-harbpr this fall." A cold 
 draft blew in as still anothir man entered, and 
 I shivered as I looked oven at my warm old 
 leather coat, and thought ol the half-fed chil- 
 dren and the Arctic winter cVming. However, 
 not a word orcomplaint was uttered as the men 
 silently tooytheir seats and Imelt to pray for 
 God's prejpice in Uncle Silas' raom, some pray- 
 ing aloua to themselves, as is their custom. 
 
 It wa/n't quite easy to choose a hymn which 
 did not/compromise one's own sense of sincerity 
 just a/little, and suggest that the idea of real 
 brotherhood was more often sung about than 
 acted/on, especially as I thought again of my 
 smar/ little boat and the plenty it would carry 
 149 
 
Uncle Silas : Fisherman 
 
 me to. A non-committal hymn, one looking on 
 the next world as the place for brotherhood, even 
 sounded hollow when one thought of "Love thy 
 neighbor as thyself." I could but notice how 
 Will Stevens' little lad right opposite me 
 coughed and how pale and thin he looked. 
 I could also see Uncle Silas' only little grand- 
 daughter crouching behind the stove, barelegged, 
 and with only a cotton frock on. No hymn seemed 
 to suit the occasion, though I knew them all 
 from cover to cover. Even "Shall we meet be- 
 yond the river" suggested, "If we do we will 
 certainly remember all about our meeting here," 
 and my heart added, "the hypocrisy of it!" 
 
 In the most natural way one man after 
 another thanked God for His love to them and 
 theirs, till, when at the close we joined together 
 in the Lord's Prayer, "Give us this" day our daily 
 bread" nearly choked me. It was sKrer at last, 
 and the men rose to go home. \ 
 
 "Uncle Silas," I said, "it seems to me as 
 if the Lord means me to help to open the win- 
 dow of heaven, or He wouldn't have sent me 
 here to-night. It has just struck me that we 
 want a store built right by the hospital, and it 
 ought to be done this winter. I wonder whether 
 150 
 
Uncle Silas : Fisherman 
 
 you men could get the frame out of the bay for 
 me, and saw the plank with your pit-saws. I'd 
 be glad enough to advance the food if you think 
 you could look after it for me." 
 
 "My days for sawing are gone by, Doctor," he 
 said, "but I'll gladly take the job in hand, and 
 Sam here'U do my part, and I'll see to the stuff 
 you sends, and have the lumber put here on 
 my wharf for you, by when you comes next 
 spring." 
 
 So, after all, our prayer-meeting ended silently, 
 with only myself praying to know what sort 
 of store it was we wanted, while the men's hearts 
 breathed their thanks to God, as their faces 
 plainly showed, even by Uncle Silas' tiny kero- 
 sene lamp. 
 
 "I reckon it will cost almost two hundred dol- 
 lars, Uncle Silas." 
 
 That is, there were eight families, and I had 
 estimated that they would need about sixteen 
 barrels of flour, one puncheon of molasses, twelve 
 tubs of butter and two barrels of pork. It was 
 as much as I could see my way to pay for just 
 then anyhow. Translated into work (to save 
 their independence), it meant about five thousand 
 feet of hand-sawn lumber, five thousand feet 
 151 
 
Uncle Silas : Fisherman 
 
 of clapboard, two doors, sleeper, sills, wall pieces, 
 couplers, and ties, free on board the mission ves- 
 sel next June. 
 
 We had been so absorbed in our prayer-meet- 
 ing that we had forgotten it was so late in the 
 year, and that there was no place to get the food. 
 "They'se all gone from Venison Trickle, 
 Doctor, and I doubt there's no way to get any 
 'things' now till after the sea is frozen," said 
 Uncle Silas sadly. "The traders has all gone 
 long ago, and they knows well enough there is 
 nothing here to bring 'em in, if they hasn't." 
 
 Yes, that was true, and it certainly did stagger 
 us. For there wasn't a craft among their 
 poor neglected fishing-boats in the harbor that 
 would look at such a task as going south to fetch 
 it, even if they were able to carry it, 
 
 "Let us sleep over it. Uncle Silas," was all I 
 could say, "I think I'll turn in — I'm dog tired." 
 But, for all that, the prayer-meeting wasn't over 
 yet — not by any means. 
 
 The wind rose to a storm in the night, and 
 even Uncle Silas' house, which clung like a lim- 
 pet to the rocks, seemed to me in my dreams to 
 be tossing fretfully under its violence. As I 
 rose next morning, I could see the swell breaking 
 
 IS2 
 
Uncle Silas : Fisherman 
 
 even inside the heads of Safe-harbor, and I 
 knew there must be a "reg'lar sea running on 
 the outside." But my mind was at rest, for the 
 dainty little Urelia was riding easily to her new 
 light forty-fathom chain. 
 
 "I wishes that some vessel would come in and 
 take you and your boat safely to Battle Har- 
 bor— 'deed 1 does. Sure, 'tis no time to be alone 
 on the outside in that little thing," said Uticle 
 Silas, as we sat down to breakfast on salt fish, dry 
 bread and raw tea. 
 
 "Come, come. Uncle Silas ! Why, you've seen 
 the day when you'd have started for the North 
 Pole in a boat not half as good as the Urelia." 
 
 "I wishes one would come along," was all I 
 could get him to say, though I fancied I saw a 
 gleam in his eye as he realized the compliment. 
 
 "I think I'll go and take a look at Will Ste- 
 vens' lad," I ventured next. "He seemed to me 
 to have an uncommon bad cough when I saw 
 him last night." 
 
 "So do," he answered rather quickly, adding, 
 "You'll not be trying to leave to-day, I'm think- 
 ing. 
 
 "Never mind, she's good enough for it if I do. 
 Uncle Silas," I smiled, as I went out. 
 153 
 
Uncle Silas : Fisherman 
 
 The child was lying on a wooden settle when 
 I entered. 
 
 "Why, how's this, Willie?" was the first ques- 
 tion. "Are you lying down this time of day?" 
 
 "My back hurts me bad. Doctor, if I stands 
 long," said the child. 
 
 Very soon I had the little fellow stripped; a 
 pack of skin and bones he was, and there was an 
 ominous lump where the hollow of the spine 
 should be. The spine itself was stiff and painful. 
 It was the old story of commencing spinal dis- 
 ease from chronic poverty. Yet in the pity of 
 it all, the sweet old words came welling up in 
 my mind : 
 
 "There's a Friend for little children above the bright 
 blue sky," 
 
 As I realized the meaning, I felt sure He is 
 not only "above the bright blue sky," but that he 
 is right down here on earth, — He who is the 
 friend of all the little ones. I was certain now 
 he would help us in our difficulty. 
 
 A loud rapping at my door early next morn- 
 ing warned me that something unusual had hap- 
 pened. There was the sound of many heavy 
 feet in Uncle Silas' kitchen. 
 
 m 
 
Uncle Silas : Fisherman 
 
 "Doctor," I heard him call, "Doctor." 
 
 "What is it, Uncle Silas?" 
 
 "Why, Doctor," he answered, "sure, one of 
 them traders has run in for shelter. 'Tis one 
 of Bourne's and she's almost log-loaded with 
 'things.' " 
 
 There could be no mistake about it. There 
 she lay, a belated, storm-driven schooner, and 
 an anxious, fretful captain. It had been neces- 
 sary that yet one more poor human being should 
 be made to chafe and fret at God's head-winds 
 and at God's storms that appeared "all against" 
 him, in order that once more His purposes might 
 be worked out. We were not the very least 
 surprised this time. 
 
 And so the mission hospital got a new store 
 built next year, and Willie Stevens got all the 
 food he wanted, while Uncle Silas saw his "win- 
 dows o' heaven" opened. 
 
 155 
 
PETER WRIGHT : MAIL CARRIER 
 
PETER WRIGHT : MAIL CARRIER 
 
 Amidst the scattered and scanty settlements of 
 our northern climate the great problems of the 
 outside world afford little interest to our people. 
 Thus, speaking to one man about the great vic- 
 tory of the Japanese over the Baltic fleet, and 
 expecting that so great a victory would be of 
 interest anywhere, I was not surprised when my 
 auditor turned around and asked : "Who be those 
 Japans, Doctor?" as if they lived in a part of 
 Labrador. The irregularity of our communica- 
 tions with the outside world certainly affords us 
 some excuse ; but the difficulty in giving schooling 
 to the children is another potent factor. We are, 
 therefore, better acquainted with events no longer 
 current, so that when I asked a man a while ago 
 if he knew who was the greatest man in Eng- 
 land he replied cheerfully : "Yes, sur ; I guess he 
 be Mister Bright." Even the factor of the Hud- 
 son's Bay Company at one of their large posts re- 
 ceives only one mail a year from the outside 
 world. He has his daily paper put on his table 
 159 
 
Peter Wright: Mail Carrier 
 
 every morning. But his information is always 
 exactly one year old. 
 
 It is little wonder, therefore, if our main inter- 
 ests are in ourselves and our own doings, and if 
 we know, perhaps, more details about our neigh- 
 bors than is good for either us or them; Indeed, 
 few things happen along our shore which do not . 
 soon fly from mouth to mouth, and, as every- 
 where else, human characters cannot always 
 stand such a test. Our gatherings for publig 
 worship can only be irregular and infrequent, 
 and a man's godliness cannot be judged by his 
 adherence to conventional rules. I have known 
 the peripatetic parson himself to be actually 
 caught trouting on Sunday morning, in blissful 
 ignorance of the heinous offense he was com- 
 mitting! "For t' parson was adrift in t' week- 
 days." You may imagine how he startled the 
 village by arriving on the Sabbath, trout pole in 
 hand, a fine string ojf speckled beauties dangling 
 by his side. 
 
 So in our minds we, who see the works of the 
 Lord and His wonders in the deep, and have 
 no doubt of His oversight of our affairs, grade 
 our Christians by the way they do their daily 
 work, and by their answer to the call of duty, 
 i6b 
 
Peter Wright: Mail Carrier 
 
 rather than by the standards which usually 
 prevail. 
 
 All this is my excuse for telling you the story 
 of our little mail carrier, Peter Wright, who in 
 spite of an occasional dereliction we grade here 
 as one of our best men. In the ordinary accep- 
 tance of the word Pete could not be called an 
 athlete, body, soul or spirit. Yet his prodigies of 
 endurance and devotion to duty have taught us at 
 least to appraise highly both a strong will and a 
 loyal heart among the essential assets of the true 
 athlete. When it was his duty or when simple 
 love in Christ's sense demanded it, Pete was an 
 athlete, "sure enough." 
 
 In a burst of confidence Peter once informed 
 me: "I t'inks I is fifty-eight years of age. Doc- 
 tor." And this was before Dr. Osier frightened 
 us from becoming sixty. I know he stands only 
 five feet three inches in his stockings. He 
 weighs one hundred and fifteen pounds, or 
 rather less now, for he seems to be growing 
 smaller year by year. He is perfectly erect, has 
 piercing, deep-set eyes with heavy eyebrows. He 
 answers questions almost as an automatic ma- 
 chine responds to a penny in the slot, shutting up 
 with a snap. In this he is unlike his neighbors, 
 i6i 
 
Peter Wright: Mail Carrier 
 
 whose attention readily wanders during any pre 
 longed conversation. Pete never was a gossip. 
 He was born and reared on our coast, though of 
 English descent. He is unmarried. In his early 
 days his attention was given to fishing and to, 
 hunting like the rest of us. But years and years 
 ago, to us it seems in the dim vistas of the past, 
 he was appointed one of Her Majesty's mail car- 
 riers, and that position he has held ever since. 
 Some think him a special creation for that pur- 
 pose. 
 
 The mails come to our village from the near- 
 est point on the recently-built railway line more 
 than one hundred miles away to the south of us, 
 until that road is closed by the struggling trains 
 getting buried in the winter snows. Then they ' 
 come all around the island by carriers, and reach 
 us from the north and west. 
 
 Some of the carriers drive large teams of dogs. 
 Others, like Pete, having steep hills to climb and 
 dense woods to go through, prefer "shank's 
 pony." For they can then make short cuts, dodg- 
 ing, as it were, from drogue to drogue of trees, 
 and can cross ice-covered bays that would not be 
 safe for dogs. When the sea permits it, our 
 letters come by steamer, and then Pete has only 
 .162 
 
Peter Wright: Mail Carrier 
 
 to row along thirty miles of coast between her 
 ports of call. This he does cross-handed and 
 alone in his tiny punt, the roaring surf of the 
 open Atlantic rolling in on the cliff being all he 
 has to speak to. 
 
 The distance for each carrier varies. Pete's 
 is about one hundred miles "on the round." Now 
 this task would involve no special fortitude or 
 heroism in a country where houses are frequent 
 and where roads exist; where rivers are bridged 
 and arms of the sea have ferries; where dense 
 woods have paths and trackless barrens are 
 "poled;" where travelers going to and fro keep 
 communication open and afford a chance of help 
 to any one overtaken by accident. Nor would it 
 be such a task if "people wasn't lookin' for you 
 reg'lar," so that you could choose your weather 
 for traveling. But Pete's round possesses none 
 of these facilities. There is no road at all. There 
 are no bridges and no ferries. Scarcely any one 
 ever travels the paths except where a solitary 
 trapper crosses them in his fur rounds. Houses 
 in places are as far as twenty miles apart. There 
 are mountains to climb and rivers to cross, bogs 
 to navigate or circumnavigate, impenetrable bar- 
 ren uplands and large lakes. From the begin- 
 163 
 
Peter Wright : Mail Carrier 
 
 ning to the end of winter the whole circuit is 
 hidden under a deep covering of snow which 
 obliterates all landmarks. It gets deeper and 
 more deceptive as the months pass by, and in the 
 dark short days of January it is one wilderness 
 of white. When May comes and brings spring 
 to those in more genial climes, here the rivers 
 are fretting dangerously at their winter bonds, 
 and any unexpected moment may find their free- 
 dom again. The lakes are subtly undermining 
 the bridges we have used all winter. They 
 are still so like the trusty ones that we have 
 become familiar with that the unwary will be 
 caught. Meanwhile the ponderous mantle of the 
 winter sea is breaking up and, suddenly yielding 
 to the persuasion of the strong westerly winds, 
 has more than once broken from the land while 
 the traveler has been crossing the wide mouth of 
 some bay. So he and his have gone seaward 
 on a craft that seldom, if ever, brings him back 
 home again. All that we know when one of 
 these accidents overtakes us is that "Jack was 
 
 seen at , but never reached the goal he 
 
 was making for." For the rest — ^as to what 
 happened — ^no one will be one whit the wiser. 
 Yet this is Pete Wright's regular beat. Year 
 164 
 
Peter Wright: Mail Carrier 
 
 after year this small solitary man has compassed 
 this round ten to twelve times every winter, 
 Regular as clockwork, he turns up at each of his 
 appointed stations once a fortnight. The man 
 comes and goes like a meteor. 
 
 We were pitying ourselves one night as we 
 turned into our comfortable sleeping bags on the 
 floor of our host's tilt. Pitying ourselves be- 
 cause it had been a heavy day on our dogs, and 
 it was nearly ten o'clock before we reached shel- 
 ter. When I woke in the morning, as the gray 
 dawn was stealing in through the little window, 
 I thought I heard a movement by the stove. 
 There seemed something almost uncanny about 
 it, till I made out what it was, and could distin- 
 guish a tiny, erect figure sitting bolt upright, 
 where none had been over-night. It proved to be 
 Peter Wright. He had arrived about two in 
 the morning, noiselessly stationed himself by the 
 stove and, recharging it, had gone straight off to 
 sleep, sitting on the settle, without a word to 
 any one, as satisfied as if he were in a feather bed. 
 Now this place was where three carriers meet. 
 The one from the westward was late, and Pete 
 did not get his mails handed over until nine in 
 the evening. He had thirty miles to his next sta- 
 i6s 
 
Peter Wright : MaU Carrier 
 
 tion and the temperature was 20 below zero. At 
 ten he rose to go. "What, Pete, never going to 
 leave at this time of night are you?" 
 
 "Why, sure," he replied. "With a moon like 
 this 'tis better in the woods than when them 
 skeeters (mosquitoes) are about. So long. Doc- 
 tor," and with that he went out absolutely alone. 
 A good day's travel is thirty miles. On a sick 
 call he has covered forty-five miles. "I only 
 counts on two and one-half miles an hour; but I 
 find I soon kills out them that travels four for 
 the first day or two." 
 
 Pete carries nothing with him but his precious 
 mails. These, at times, weigh sixty pounds and 
 over when he sets out, and the heavier they are 
 the prouder he is of them. On one occasion, the 
 southern carrier having been late, Pete had only 
 two unstamped local letters to carry, and when we 
 met him by the way he was almost too ashamed 
 to stop and speak to us, though many men 
 would say : "Us gets the same pay for the round 
 and has less to carry." And yet others : "It ain't 
 worth our going at all for two letters. Us'll let 
 them two bide over till next mail." Not so Pete. 
 Though some think his only a humble work, to 
 him it was always a post for which he, Pete 
 166 
 
Peter Wright : Mail Carrier 
 
 Wright, was responsible. No one else would do 
 it if he left it undone, and therefore must he go 
 if there were no letters at all. But he felt it a 
 sort of lack of confidence, due possibly to some 
 fault of his own, that he should have so little 
 entrusted to him. 
 
 I can remember one other occasion on 
 which he was even more crestfallen. On our 
 southern journey we met him one night joyfully 
 staggering along under a huge weight of mail 
 matter to the same tilt at which we were prepar- 
 ing to stay the night, so we, being the largest 
 recipients of letters in our district, were anticipat- 
 ing over tea the opening of the mail bags after- 
 ward. 
 
 At last the seal was broken, the twine cut, and 
 there fell out on the floor an innumerable number 
 of the same kind of packages. They proved to 
 be simply one large consignment of patent medi- 
 cine advertisements. If we had had faith in the 
 testimonials to their extraordinary value, we 
 should only have been left the more sorry. 
 For it was as impossible for us to get any of that 
 elixir vitae as to get strawberries and cream. 
 Meanwhile, Pete had left one bag behind be- 
 cause he was physically unable to "spell" the two 
 167 
 
Peter Wright: Mail Carrier 
 
 on his back at once. The mails are carried in 
 waterproof bags and so slung over the back as 
 to bring the main weight high up between the 
 shoulders. Pete never carries either compass 
 or waterproof covering, though in spring he 
 arrives sometimes in fog as thick as pea soup or 
 drenched to the skin by what he calls with a con- 
 temptuous smile only a "sou'westerly mild." 
 
 He has arrived after midnight, only his deep- 
 set eyes visible, his handkerchief tied over his 
 mouth and frozen there, so that it would take 
 full ten minutes to thaw it off, up to 
 which time he could not utter a single word. He 
 carries nothing to eat but a cake of hard bread 
 (or ship's biscuit), as that does not freeze 
 like soft bread. But these later years, having 
 fewer teeth left, he has to moisten the afore- 
 said biscuit before he can demolish it. Now, 
 when lakes are frozen to the bottom and rivers 
 are twenty feet under snow, this is no easy task. 
 So Pete has to depend more and more on his 
 knowledge of boiling springs, for he never yet 
 was "nish" (tender) enough to stop and boil the 
 kettle when he could melt snow for water. Indeed, 
 he never carries an axe, though no traveler who 
 thinks of personal comfort would ever venture 
 i68 
 
Peter Wright: Mail Carrier 
 
 out in this country in winter without one/^ For 
 an axe means a fire, a tilt for shelter ajfid a hot 
 drink, if one happens to be overta^n in the 
 woods, as the writer has been. 
 
 "But after March comes in, I d/es carry soft 
 bread," he confided to me. It /sras a kind of 
 indulgence he allowed himself /fter the back of 
 the work was broken. 
 
 It was only by chance I discovered that Pete 
 possessed any frailties commpn to our kind. For 
 my hostess once told me /she occasionally per- 
 suaded him to accept doiigh boys, "with a little 
 chopped pork and moIasseJB pounded in to prevent 
 'em freezing, and cos Pete says they gives a 
 won'erful light to his feyes." But in spite of 
 these, and even a rare slice of boiled pork, 
 he is forced to be a maa of moderation. For his 
 two meals a day, mor ling and evening, are far 
 apart, and often enoug i consist only of dry bread 
 and tea innocent of eit ler milk or sugar. 
 
 Our folk regard one ihing about him as doubt- 
 ful. He travels every aay, considering the im- 
 perious call of the mail suoerior to that for Sun- 
 day rest. We might understand this when there 
 are "sealed" letters (magic word) in his bag. 
 But as they usually are only of the class that con- 
 169 
 
Peter Wright : Mail Carrier 
 
 tains "I hope you finds this well, as it leaves me 
 at present, thank God," we are a little fearful for 
 Pete's moral welfare. As a rule Pete responds 
 to the mail as an arrow to a bowstring, though 
 "However hard pushed I is. Doctor, I always 
 tries to get two hours' sleep in the twenty-four." 
 And he once said to me, half apologetically, "I 
 don't reckon, Doctor, when a man has an easy 
 mind that five or six hours is too much." 
 
 Peter smokes, by doctor's orders, after each of 
 his two meals. "I finds it does me good on times," 
 he says. But he admits that he finds the pipe 
 at night "sweet enough." Tobacco was orig- 
 inally ordered him for a kind of asthma he suf- 
 fered from ; but I more than fear that that can 
 no longer be blamed for the continuance of the 
 habit. If he were to exceed the prescribed two 
 pipes, he says, "It does me harm, I know." 
 
 Pete's two inseparable friends are his small 
 knobbed stick, which he cut himself in the woods, 
 and his snow rackets. Large and round they 
 are, not built for speed, but to keep him up. "The 
 least sink breaks my step," he says, "and that 
 soon tells. No, I never takes them off, not even 
 on hard ice. You see, I was always terrible on 
 rackets from a boy." 
 
 170 
 
Peter Wright : Mail Carrier 
 
 Pete is a man we all love. For Pete seems to 
 love every one. He is always ready to oblige, and 
 never happier than when the space on his back, 
 ordinarily monopolized by his official bundle, per- 
 mits him to carry a lo-pound tub of butterine, 
 or a couple of gallon jars of molasses, just to 
 oblige. It isn't for the filthy lucre alone that Pete 
 works. His magnificent remuneration is ten dol- 
 lars a trip, and out of this when there is mcfre 
 than he can carry he must hire another man to 
 "spell what's over." It is lucky for Pete he does 
 not have to pay hotel bills as he journeys from 
 place to place. There would be little left of the 
 salary beyond enough for "skin boots" if he were 
 charged for meals. But there are no hotel bills 
 on the coast, and we are incapable of an idea so 
 original as to ask Pete to pay for anything. 
 
 So, by his never-failing cheerfulness, his high 
 sense of responsibility to his humble position, 
 and his absolute self-forgetfulness, Pete has en- 
 deared himself to the whole coast. And when 
 his race is run and he, in common with all of us, 
 can carry only his record with him, we shall all 
 expect him to hear from the Master, the righteous 
 Judge, "Well done." He says he has been a little 
 nervous of late about a pack of wolves which 
 171 
 
Peter Wright: Mail Carrier 
 
 followed the western carrier, for "you see I only 
 has my old stick to help me." But some of us 
 slyly wink when the wolf story comes up, for we 
 pity the wolf that would try to digest so inde- 
 structible a phenomenon as Peter Wright, mail 
 carrier. 
 
 172 
 
UNCLE RUBE'S NET 
 
UNCLE RUBE'S NET 
 
 It was the gossip of our cove at that time that 
 Rube Cassels was hauling out a house from the 
 woods. 
 
 Till he was twenty-one years of age he had 
 bided home, and turned in all he earned to the 
 support of a family of numerous brothers and sis- 
 ters. But now he was a man full-fledged, and it 
 was the custom of the coast that he should have 
 "half his hand" for his clothing and to put by 
 for his own use. 
 
 So for four more years he had steadily stacked 
 half his fish in a separate bulk, and each fall 
 had carried it off to sell it to the traders for the 
 few things he needed, stipulating that he must 
 have the balance in cash. Now, though cash was 
 a commodity a family man had scarcely ever any 
 hope of getting, for the credit system gave them 
 no option as to where they must sell their fish, 
 a young man with no family ties would be free 
 to freight his fish to St. John's if he were so 
 minded. 
 
 m 
 
Uncle Rube's Net 
 
 So Rube's stocking, in which he banked his 
 money, grew heavier as the years went by, for 
 those were times of comparative plenty on our 
 coast, and good voyages were common. So now, 
 at twenty-six years of age, the neighbors noticed 
 that beyond the fire wood that Rube was wont to 
 haulj out for the house, he was gradually building 
 a pile of good stout sticks, and that instead of 
 •following th€ gun, of which he had ever been 
 "amazing fond," he would speiid the spare time 
 chopping and squaring some of "they- sticks." It 
 was 4 sure sign enough. For "them sticks could 
 .only be for studding a house wi'," and long be- 
 ,fore the, snow came and made going in the 
 woods impossible, and while the, harbor was 
 still frozen, so, that punts could not be out look- 
 ing for fish, the fact that Rube contemplated a 
 house was known. The confirmatory evidence 
 was supplied when he got his cousin Charley to 
 come on thirds, and saw boards with him from 
 the remaining logs with the great pit-saT??. 
 
 The best part of next season's earnings went 
 in nails and shingles, glass and paint, tarred felt 
 and stoves, and by the Christmas following Rube 
 had up a tiny studded house, well stogged with 
 dry moss and shingles, clapboarded, and only 
 176 
 
SUMMER FISHERMAN'S HOUSE IN LABRADOR 
 
Uncle Rube's Net 
 
 waiting a mistress to add one more home to our 
 cove. This fault was remedied at New Year's, 
 when Rube proudly led to the altar in our little 
 meeting-house as capable and thrifty a lass as 
 ever entered on the responsible duties that lay 
 before her. 
 
 It was characteristic of Rube that he always 
 looked forward and anticipated coming difficul- 
 ties, so that, as his family increased and sons and 
 daughters were added to him, the little house 
 grew too, bit by bit, till it was more like a patch- 
 work quilt than anything else. But Rube was 
 only a hook-and-line fisherman. He never could 
 get far enough ahead to own a big net and em- 
 ploy sharemen to help him to make a big catch 
 of fish. So he had to work cross-handed — that 
 is, to row alone to and fro from the fishing 
 grounds — and that handicapped him greatly 
 when the weather was rough. Then again the 
 fish came along very uncertain in their ar- 
 rival, or, as the men call it, "spotty," so that 
 one or two years, work as he could, Rube's total 
 catch did not amount to enough to feed and 
 clothe his family. Food had to be reduced to 
 the merest necessities. They "couldn't look 
 at^ clothing them years," and the little family 
 177 
 
Uncle Rube's Net 
 
 even found it hard enough to make ends meet. 
 Whether it was anxiety, or whether it was nat- 
 ural, no one ever knew, but while not forty years 
 of age. Rube's hair became quite white. This, 
 with his quiet ways and large family, had earned 
 him his title of "Uncle Rube" long before, by 
 shore custom, he was entitled to that title of 
 affection. 
 
 Among a peaceful and God-fearing people 
 Uncle Rube had always been a rather more than 
 usually regular attendant at prayers, and it was 
 only to his self-reliant and reserved nature I had 
 attributed his never taking any part in the prayer- 
 meetings or Sunday-school. But as he had never 
 plainly declared in open meeting that he was 
 converted, as is the custom with our folks, they 
 all took it for granted that he was not a Chris- 
 tian. At the prayer-meetings, therefore, his 
 name was often mentioned as a subject for spe- 
 cial prayer, though in earnestness and tenor of 
 life, and in fidelity to his family, there wasn't a 
 man on the shore that could be placed above him. 
 However, the deep waters he was passing 
 through in spite of his most strenuous efforts, 
 had driven him to think more of the need of help 
 outside himself, and, having too much self- 
 178 
 
Uncle Rube's Net 
 
 respect to seek help irom neighbors, he one day 
 startled the congregation by staying to the after- 
 meeting. 
 
 As he took no part and gave no sign, no one 
 could guess how it had affected him. But that 
 he had found something in it was evident from 
 his remaining behind again the following Sun- 
 day. He told us afterwards, extraordinary as it 
 may seem under the circumstances, that it was 
 the feeling that perhaps he ought to be domg 
 something for others, that was growing on him ; 
 that though he never felt the surging emotion 
 which apparently made some stand up and shout 
 out before all others the fact of their own sal- 
 vation, yet it was the feeling that he could best 
 learn how to do that something by staying to 
 after-meeting that first led him to remain. And 
 when at length the light came, it came not in 
 the usual form as if he had himself suddenly been 
 saved from destruction, but rather as if God 
 would show him that he was a son by offering 
 him a share in the work of redeeming others, so 
 Uncle Rube offered to take a class in the Sun- 
 day-school, and at last, thank God, though after 
 no little hesitation, for he had not shown what 
 we, on the coast, considered the proper signs of 
 179 
 
Uncle Rube's Net 
 
 being in a fit condition for the post, he was ac- 
 cepted. 
 
 It has always seemed to him that the delay 
 was the very crisis in his own aifairs, the chas- 
 tening, as he called it, that saved his soul. For 
 the only men whom Uncle Rube in his mind could 
 never allow were Christians, were those who 
 could do good and did not. To him the lost soul 
 was always not so much the sinner, as the idler, — 
 the burier of talents. 
 
 Reference to his roughly kept accounts at that 
 time shows the straits to which he was being 
 driven. As the details are peculiar to our coast, I 
 give them here as he gave them to me : 
 
 Caught 20 quintals of fish (about 2500 fish), at 
 
 $2.30 $46.00 
 
 Value of cod oil from same 12.00 
 
 Share of salmon in one net (120 fish) 9.50 
 
 Working on the road 3.00 
 
 Herring in a single net 2.00 
 
 Sawing boards with pit-saw for another man. . . . 15.00 
 One sheep killed (he had five), but must keep 
 
 the rest for wool 3.50 
 
 Seven barrels of potatoes, two kept for seed, at 
 
 $2 bbl 14.00 
 
 $105.00 
 180 
 
Uncle Rube's Net 
 
 Deduct for expenses on boat, rope, canvas, nails, 
 
 paint $5-00 
 
 Salt for fish 6.50 
 
 Lines, hooks, etc 2.50 
 
 One pair fishing boots 4.00 
 
 Oilskins 3-50 
 
 $21.50 
 Total net earnings $8350 
 
 Necessities for self, wife and six children for the 12 
 
 months: 
 Thirteen barrels of flour (more needed because 
 
 of few things to help out), second quality, $5.30 
 
 bbl $71.50 
 
 Molasses, forty-five gallons at 4Sc. (no sugar 
 
 available) 20.25 
 
 Hard bread, 3 bags at $4.00 12.00 
 
 Tea, ten pounds, at 40c 4.00 
 
 Oleomargarine, 50 lbs., at 20c. lb 10.00 
 
 Kerosene oil, 10 gallons, at 30c 3.00 
 
 Matches, needle, thread, etc 2.00 
 
 $122.75 
 
 Thus even many necessities were beyond his 
 reach. For clothing, gunpowder, shot and a thou- 
 sand other materials, there was nothing available. 
 Yet all Uncle Rube deduced from it was, "I 
 think I ought to be doing something for others. 
 181 
 
Uncle Rube's Net 
 
 That's what God would learn me." And, indeed, 
 it seemed from subsequent events as if it were 
 so. For somehow they "put the winter over 
 them," and the following year Jack, the old- 
 est boy, helping him, Uncle Rube had a really 
 good catch. The price of fish rose also to $3.00, 
 the old gun, six foot in the barrel, was deadly for 
 ducks or even with ball for deer. Of this he was 
 always very fond, so that a sigh of joy escaped 
 him when she was once more brought down, 
 cleaned up and loaded — more especially as he got 
 a bit of "fresh" for all hands during the winter. 
 
 Nor was that all. Jack was now big enough 
 to cut up wood at home. So Uncle Rube could 
 tend his fur-path again, as he used to do be- 
 fore. "As the Lord would have it," he was 
 lucky . enough to catch a good fox, with 
 the result that when summer opened, he actually 
 had, for the first time since his marriage twenty 
 years before, some cash carefully hidden away 
 in the old stocking. 
 
 Jacky, too, was able to work a good line now, 
 and when settling day came once more, with 
 Jacky's catch and his own. Uncle Rube ordered 
 100 pounds of twine. For he was determined to 
 have a trap net of his own some day. 
 182 
 
Uncle Rube's Net 
 
 You can't jump from poverty to affluence all 
 at once on our coast. And this was the case 
 with Uncle Rube. But what, with a bit of credit 
 for twine, and the boys being big enough to help 
 him to knit it up, the great net kept "a growing 
 and a growing." It was the gossip all along the 
 shore then that Uncle Rube was going to have 
 a trap. He became in our minds a man of sub- 
 stance and importance in proportion. No longer 
 only a hook-and-Une man, not even a shareman, 
 but the owner of a trap himself. It added a cer- 
 tain dignity to all of us on the coast, the fact 
 that the very owner of a trap net lived right 
 among us. 
 
 It was a wonderful day when at last the great 
 net was stowed into the new trap boat that Un- 
 cle Rube had built with the help of only the two 
 lads. Jack and Will, for they were sizable lads 
 now. And when at last it was wet for the first 
 time, and safely moored to a projecting headland^ 
 well known as a resort for cod, there proved to be 
 need for only one shareman besides Uncle Rube 
 and the two boys, and that was Cousin Charley, 
 who had helped so long ago to bring out the 
 house with Uncle Rube. 
 
 The ice was well off the coast when first the 
 183 
 
Uncle Rube's Net 
 
 precious net was put out, and Uncle Rube had 
 had two hauls out of it, the firstfruits, we all 
 thought, of a rich harvest. 
 
 "I've got as much as I used to get all summer 
 cross-handed," he said to me, with pardonable 
 pride, as he came aboard one Saturday evening 
 that I lay at anchor in the harbor. " 'Tis a won- 
 derful thing. Doctor, a wonderful help to poor 
 folks. If things goes well I'll pay off the few 
 dollars I owes on her this very first summer." 
 
 It was a beautifully fine sunny and calm morn- 
 ing on Sunday, and when I came on deck I found 
 that already the flag for prayers was up ashore 
 to greet the day of rest. There was every 
 prospect of a helpful time together, and the oily 
 calm of the deep blue water reflecting the sun- 
 shine made it even in these northern latitudes 
 as warm as May. 
 
 But just as we were leaving the ship's side 
 one of our crew called my attention to the fact 
 that the incoming tide was bringing some pans 
 of loose ice along shore, in towards the harbor 
 heads. "I hope there are no traps out at the 
 heads," he added. "It will surely carry them 
 away if it comes tight to the shore." Yet it re- 
 quired no great acumen to see that one trap did 
 r84 
 
Uncle Rube's Net 
 
 stand in great danger, and that trap was the hard- 
 earned property of Uncle Reuben. 
 
 "All right, go ahead. I'll tell Uticle Rube he'd 
 best go out and loose his moorings, and let the 
 net swing in to the shore, or at least let it sink, 
 if he doesn't fetch it in." 
 
 As we climbed the hill to the rude wooden 
 building that served us for our meetings, we 
 found the whole population already gathering 
 outside, and waiting, as usual, for our arrival. 
 There was no need to mention the matter of the 
 ice, for already it was perceptibly nearer, and 
 the men's keen eyes had long ago taken in the 
 situation. 
 
 " 'Tis coming down right on the trap, I says,*' 
 I heard one old fellow remark. "I ain't been a 
 fishin' here these fifty years, not to know which 
 way the tide be sweepin.' " 
 
 "I believes you're right. Uncle Robert," said 
 another, and then they made way for us to go by. 
 
 "Good morning. Where's Uncle Rube this 
 morning? Surely he must have noticed the dan- 
 ger to his net." 
 
 "Sure so. Doctor, but Uncle Rube's off to the 
 meetin'-house showing folks in." They evidently 
 knew more than they said to me, for they all 
 i8s 
 
Uncle Rube's Net 
 
 turned and watched as I came up to the door at 
 which Uncle Rube was standing. 
 
 "You'd better go and get your net, Uncle 
 Rube," I began, "or likely enough you'll lose 
 it, I should think it only right if it were mine." 
 
 Uncle Rube looked at me and then out 
 at the headlands, perfectly visible from where 
 we stood; a lump seemed to be choking his 
 throat, as he replied : "I know 'tis a poor look- 
 out for the trap. Doctor, but I can't go out to- 
 day to save even that." And again he looked 
 away towards the house of prayer, as if to avoid 
 the great temptation. 
 
 "But, Uncle Rube, the Sabbath was made for 
 man, and I'm sure I should feel quite right in 
 going out to save the m§ans of getting my daily 
 bread." 
 
 "It might be all right for you. Doctor," he said, 
 this time without turning his head. "But there's 
 folks in this harbor as only wants an excuse to 
 go fishing Sundays, and I'm not going to be the 
 one to give it them. God help me." 
 
 "But, Uncle Rube, think what it means. You'll 
 have no way to get your winter diet." 
 
 "The Lord has looked after that all these years. 
 Doctor," he replied, "and I'll trust Him for that." 
 i86 
 
Uncle Rube's Net 
 
 There was no more to be said. We went into 
 the building, which soon filled up, and as we sang 
 together the familiar hymn 
 
 "Simply trusting every day, 
 Trusting thro' a stormy way," 
 
 it seemed to me as if no one had any right to sing 
 it but Uncle Rube, whose eyes were riveted on 
 the book, and who was singing it, it seemed to 
 me, as I had never known it sung before. 
 
 By the time service was over the ice had gone 
 by. Had it taken Uncle Rube's trap? At the 
 afternoon Sunday-school, of which Uncle Rube 
 was now superintendent, no one ventured to say 
 a word about it. But though Uncle Rube had not 
 had down his spy-glass he must even then have 
 known that a large part of his hard-earned net 
 was being carried along that rocky coast by the 
 remorseless ice, and being slowly pounded into 
 shreds as it went along. 
 
 Next morning at day-dawn we were just get- 
 ting under way, at three o'clock, when looking 
 over the side, I saw a boat already coming in from 
 the heads. It was Uncle Rube, his boys and their 
 shareman. They had gone out at five minutes 
 past twelve o'clock and were coming in with the 
 t87 
 
Uncle Rube's Net 
 
 remains of the trap. I hailed him, and he brought 
 his boat alongside. 
 
 "I do hope it isn't much damaged, Uncle Reu- 
 ben." 
 
 "Well, it might ha' been worse, thank God," 
 he answered, cheerily. "It'll take us a fortnight, 
 I doubts, to get her in the water again. But I'm 
 thinking we'll not get twine again till next fall." 
 
 "A fortnight! Why the capHn School will be 
 over by then, and the trap fishing won't be any 
 more good this year." 
 
 "That's true enough. Doctor; but I've seen 
 worse times, and, please God, us'U do better with 
 her come next spring." 
 
 I hadn't the heart to say anything more at the 
 time. But I know sincie that his perfect peace 
 of mind was due to his conviction that this was 
 the thing the Lord wanted him to do for others. 
 So his boat passed cwi ashore, and we, too, went 
 our way, having had a helpful Sunday ; but in a 
 way that we didn't expect. 
 
 Twelve years have rolled away since then. 
 Who would venture to say Uticle Rube is now 
 one penny piece the poorer? His boys have 
 grown to strong young men, while his girls have 
 gone off to homes of their own in the coves 
 i88 
 
Uncle Rube's Net 
 
 near by. His hair is now whiter than ever, 
 though his step is still as firm. And Uncle Rube 
 has possessions more precious than the lost net 
 could ever have given him. His own simple trust 
 in God has been given to all his children — and 
 they in turn are rearing yet another generation to 
 serve the Master. For the foundation of their 
 faith was laid not in what they were told — ^Uncle 
 Rube never was a talker — ^but on what their eyes 
 had seen in him through all the years — and they 
 in turn are learning to know that the only life 
 that is life at all is the Christ-life — ^the life that 
 is lived to do something for others. 
 
 189 
 
GREEN PASTURES 
 
GREEN PASTURES 
 
 Yes, sir. 'Tis uphill work tryin' to get ahead 
 when you has a hard family — ^but, bless the Lord, 
 he have always brought me through. 
 
 I were only a slip of a lad when father and 
 brother Tom were lost in the Glad Tidings, 
 and I had to fend for mother and the two girls. 
 
 No, there were no insurance on Bay craft in 
 them days, and all us had to look to was t' hook 
 and line. You supposes us saw bad times ? Well, 
 no — bless the Lord — ^He never 'lowed us to want 
 a bit t' eat, though it were hard enough to reach 
 to clothing on times. But the Lord, he gived us 
 good neighbors, and mother, she al'ays 'lowed as 
 how t'were "green pastures" he led us through. 
 
 Like most fishermen, I married real young, 
 and soon a lot of toe biters began to come along, 
 and it were hard enough then to keep the bread 
 box full — that is, on times. 
 
 I was shareman them days with my Uncle 
 Rube, but it were uncertain work, and if I hadn't 
 done well with my traps furring it would have 
 193 
 
Green Pastures 
 
 gone hard wi' our daily bread some winters I'm 
 'lowing. 
 
 So in b'tween times in winter I hauled out the 
 wood to build a fishin' skiff of my own, and some 
 o' our neighbors lent me a hand a riggin' of her 
 out. It weren't altogether that us earn't more — 
 but it left me ne'er an idle hour, as then all I 
 could get were for my own hand. And you 
 knows, sir, that when a man has women folk a 
 'pending on him, he wants to be at something 
 all the time, if it's only to keep his mind quiet. 
 
 Well, sir, the fish began to fail round home 
 afore our oldest lad could hold a paddle, and all 
 who could used to pack off to Labrador every 
 May month and bring back the fish they caught 
 in t' fall o' the year. But mother were that fee-r 
 ble ever since the shock o' father's death, I 
 couldn't make out to leave her. For you sees, 
 sir, it wasn't as if us knowed what had happened 
 to the Glad Tidings. Her just sailed out t' the 
 grounds, and never comed back. 
 
 Mother never would believe she were lost. 
 For never a chip o' the vessel were found to tell 
 us what happened, and she were as staunch as 
 good wood and good work could make her. Ice 
 it were, I 'lows. For in the dark you can't see 
 194 
 
Green Pastures 
 
 one of them northern growlers when them's just 
 level wi' the water — ^not even if so be you'se be 
 looking right at 'em. Father were a driver, too. 
 Bless yer, sir, he never thought no more o' dan- 
 ger than he did o' nothing. Ice it were. Ice 
 sure enough, I 'lows. 
 
 Till long after open water mother used to 
 be up early and late a-watchin' and a-watchin' 
 for the Glad Tidings. And, poor as us was, t' 
 light never went out o' our window from dark 
 to daylight all that winter through. "You'se 
 never knows, Johnny," her used to say, "the 
 Lord may be gracious to we yet." 
 
 The first season after she were taken us all 
 went down to Labrador in my Uncle Rube's 
 schooner, the Ready and Go. 
 
 We was sorry to close our little home, for it 
 were all us had, but o' course Mary weren't will- 
 ing for me to go wi'out her and the children. 
 And, indeed, a man needs a 'ooman to help make 
 his fish and cook his food if he is to do anything 
 what's worth while, alone, that is "cross- 
 handed" us calls it. 
 
 We was eager to be down early to be ready 
 by when t' fish first set in, and there was still a 
 deal o' fioe ice about after us rounded Cape John. 
 '95 
 
Green Pastures 
 
 We was just packed full o' people beneath detks. 
 For there were, first o' all, a load o' salt in her, 
 and then bar'U o' flour and pork and molasses, 
 and nets and ropes and boxes, all covered over 
 wi' old sails, and then the women and children 
 on the top. For they never comes on deck at 
 sea. There am\ no room for 'em ianyhow, even 
 if 'em wants to. Us men just sleep'd anywhere. 
 
 It were my first experience o' the Labrador, 
 and I has nothing to say ^g'in them old rocks. 
 Them's served me good these many a year, 
 though us has had our bad times like t' rest. 
 
 There was lots o' tag ends hanging from our 
 planks afore us reached our harbor that year 
 from scudding through the ice. Yes, and there 
 were plenty o' ice candles a-hanging from our 
 bows, too, before us left for home again. Well 
 I minds it, for it were the only October fish I 
 ever carried from the Labrador. But we was 
 eager for every tail, and the fish held on late. 
 Aye, and the Lord prospered us, too, for us never 
 wet an anchor on the journey back; 'cept what 
 us wetted on the vessel's bow. No, not till us 
 was right off our own home again. 
 
 Come spring again us sawed 'round the Ready 
 and Go early in May, and hove her down to 
 196 
 
Green Pastures 
 
 caulk her, wi' our trap boats full o' ballast slung 
 from her mast heads. Then us cut a channel 
 thro' the standing ice wi' our pit-saws, and so 
 was among the very first vessels to start down. 
 Us fell in wi' the floe in Green Bay, but t'were 
 only in strings, so Uncle Rube were for standing 
 on and chancing it, and there were none o' us 
 youngsters to say him nay. Well, sir, we was 
 running free wi' a smart sou'west wind, when 
 about midnight us struck a big pan fair and 
 square, and the sea drove us right over it, or I 
 don't know how t'would have been wi' us. Care- 
 ful us was sure enough after that. For her tim- 
 bers was shaken enough to frighten some 
 o' us. But, in spite o' all our care, just before 
 dawning the only passage us could see was 
 between two great growlers. The ice was tighten- 
 ing up before the breeze, and just as we was pass- 
 ing between them, clip they goes. The women 
 had just time to jump on to one of the pans, as 
 they was — right out o' bed — and we was landing 
 a bit o' grub and an old sail, when down she goes, 
 stem foremost. 
 
 Yes, it were cold enough, floating about there, 
 but that wasn't the worst. For just after sun- 
 rise the pan split right in two, and went abroad 
 197 
 
Green Pastures 
 
 wi'out a moment's warning, so that us parted 
 from the women and lost our only boat, and then 
 had to watch 'em all day drifting right away from 
 us. But, praise the Lord, it kep' fine and sunny 
 all day, and the sun off the ice were that hot us 
 was well warmed up afore night. There be 
 scarcely any night down there that time o' year, 
 and by the mercy o' God, in the morning a whole 
 fleet o' vessels hove in sight, reaching along wi' a 
 mild sou'west wind — scarcely a open track but 
 there were a vessel in it, and it weren't long 
 before us was all picked up as hearty as us could 
 wish. Yes, us lost that summer on the Labrador, 
 but there were fish in somehow close to the old 
 home, and I wouldn't be saying us didn't do nigh 
 as well as if us hadn't lost the old Ready and 
 Go. Indeed, when us came to count up at 
 Christmas there were plenty and to spare to carry 
 us through the winter, wi' ne'er a hungry day 
 neither, so you can guess it were a gladsome fam- 
 ily what gathered that blessed day to thank the 
 Lord for all his goodness. 
 
 Well, sir, it weren't till my three lads grew 
 
 to be stout boys that us began to get ahead and 
 
 to lay a bit by ag'in bad times. But when them 
 
 three could handle a line apiece, and us had two 
 
 198 
 
Green Pastures 
 
 boats to the fishery, us began to think about 
 gettin' a schooner for ourselves. O' course it 
 meant a bit o' pinching and o' stinting, but at 
 last us come to terms wi' our merchant i' the 
 bay to get us a schooner, if us could find three 
 hundred dollars and the gear. What a winter 
 that were ! Us netted a terrible big trap, besides 
 all t' other work, and it were a proud day wi' us, 
 sir, when at last us sailed out o' the narrows on 
 the Ocean Bride, all our own, sir. A big ven- 
 ture, though, for us owed fifteen hundred dollars 
 on her on t' merchant's books. 
 
 We was to make the two trips, sir, like most o' 
 our boats do, getting a load if us could in the 
 Straits first, and carrying that home — and then 
 going on to the Ivabrador itself. We was as early 
 as us dare be. You'se may be sure o' that, and 
 there were still more'n a scattered bit o' ice about. 
 However, the little vessel handled like a fairy, 
 and all went well till us had rounded Cape Bauld 
 and had it all open as it were, wi' the Straits fish- 
 ery right before us. For the floe ice were all 
 off the last coast, and the Straits were as clear 
 as us could wish 'em. I was at the tiller myself, 
 and Bob were for'ard on t' lookout for ice, for 
 he had eyes like a lynx. Bob had. There weren't 
 199 
 
Green Pastures 
 
 more'n a capful o' wind a-blowin', when plomp! 
 we hits a small piece o' ice under our lee bow. 
 It were that small above water that even Bob 
 never seed un, and us took no more notice of 
 un till there comes a great shout from the 
 women as the water was rushin' in below, and 
 up they all tumbles on deck. Such a scramble in 
 the dark may I never see again, please God. It 
 seemed a sharp spike o' ice as hard as a bit o' 
 rock had found a soft spot in one of our planks, 
 and we was already going down head foremost. 
 
 In a few seconds we had our trap boat and fish- 
 ing punts in the water and all our women safely 
 stowed. Then it were a downright race to try 
 to save the new big trap net. Not a moment 
 too soon, either, for as we hauled up the last 
 piece o' the twine the Ocean Bride took her 
 last pliinge and disappeared beneath the waves. 
 The sea and ice once more had the best of us. 
 
 It seemed just a bit hard at first, but it were 
 that cold and wet, and us had it that hard to 
 make the land that, thank God, there weren't 
 much time to think o' it, and we was so glad at 
 last to get by a fire in a cottage on the land, us 
 spent the whole evening a-thankih' God for his 
 goodness in having saved us. 
 
 300 
 
Green Pastures 
 
 The very next morning an ice-hunting steamer 
 that had been down to Labrador with a number 
 o' crews came right in and offered to take us 
 home. It did appear as we was going aboard, 
 with everything gone, as if "all these things were 
 against us." But oncst again the good Lord 
 showed us right the opposite in his own 
 won'erful way. 
 
 For the steamer had to call into a harbor only 
 a dozen miles to the south'ard, and there lying 
 off the end of a wharf lay a schooner twice as 
 large as our Ocean Bride, all ready to go to 
 sea. Well, sir, you may b'lieve me or not, as 
 you likes best, but though the kettle was on the 
 stove and the very sails up a dryin', there were 
 no crew aboard her, only an ole man a watchin' 
 of her, for the owner hadn't quite settled where 
 he were going to send her for the summer. Well, 
 sir, our skipper were acquainted with her owner, 
 and he just up and says : "I tell you what. Cap- 
 tain, I'se minded just to go ashore on chance and 
 see if I can't get you that vessel for the summer." 
 Well, sir, the Lord had planned it just every bit, 
 for the steamer couldn't a stopped half an hour 
 even a-waiting. So there were the owner right 
 on the very wharf hisself. When our skipper 
 
Green Pastures 
 
 had told him all about our accident, and, what's 
 more (seeing I was a stranger and had no 
 money), had promised to pay a hire for her his- 
 self if so be I should miss the fish, the owner he 
 seems a bit puzzled at first. "You see, Captain," 
 he says, "I ought by rights to speak to the boys 
 first, for I've just shipped a crew to send her 
 after a load o' lumber. But, seeing as how the 
 skipper here is a man what loves the Lord his- 
 self, and seeing how it all seems arranged 
 already, almost wi'out my being so much as 
 asked, I supposes I must let her go," and wi' 
 that he takes me by the hand and says: "You 
 take her, skipper, and God prosper you and bless 
 the voyage." 
 
 Two days later us sailed again for the Straits. 
 But as the time were running up, us just went 
 right down on to the Labrador instead o' going 
 away down west after all the other craft, and 
 that saved us. For the Straits fishery proved a 
 failure, and the early craft in the Labrador all did 
 well. Though the new craft was so large, and 
 we had only the small crew, we got a full fare, 
 sir, chock-a-block, and were home and sold it 
 before September were half out. When we came 
 to count up again we was able to clear off the 
 202 
 
Green Pastures 
 
 Ocean Bride and lay the keel o' the fine vessel 
 what you sees we in now. 'Deed, sir, many's 
 the day I thanks God for having led me just 
 the way he did, for he have taught me to know 
 how his way is always the best way, sir, and 
 when it pleased him to take to hisself the craft 
 what was dearer to me, sir, and harder to part 
 with, too, than any that ever sailed salt water, I 
 had learnt to know for sure, sir, that even then 
 he were really still a-leadin' me through "green 
 pastures." 
 
 203 
 
SHE HATH DONE WKAtT SHE COULD 
 
 f 
 
SHE HATH DONE WHAT SHE COULD 
 
 A REVERIE IN THE NIGHT WATCHES 
 
 In a little hospital like this, with a small staff 
 of one nurse and one doctor, when a serious 
 case makes night watches a necessity, even a 
 roving doctor can know what a quiet hour 
 means. At sea, in the open season, on a night 
 watch, all is life and action. The rolling vessel — 
 the swinging compass — ^the changing courses — 
 the straining of the eyes after ice and hidden 
 dangers — all keep every faculty alert, and occupy 
 every passing moment. 
 
 But here in the dim light, the silent house, 
 the stillness of the intense cold outside, such 
 that one can almost hear the frost at work under 
 the chilly stars, the domination of the senses by 
 the nearness and bustle of things is relieved, and 
 one's imagination goes a-roaming far and wide. 
 
 A bed has been moved temporarily into our 
 pretty white enameled operating theater. A boy 
 is in it. It is nearly four in the morning, and 
 
She Hath Done What She Could 
 
 I am sitting by his side. He is a fisherman's 
 only son, ten years old. After a severe opera- 
 tion on the abdomen he is making a brave fight 
 for life. 
 
 Hard by, in a neighbor's little cottage, an anx- 
 ious mother is waiting for the first streak of 
 daylight to get the news of her child. She 
 has left her home, far away on the shores of 
 the Straits of Belle Isle, to bring her only boy, 
 Willie, hauled by a trusty dog team over these 
 miles of snow — to the knife. 
 
 It is a new world to her. For never before 
 has she seen a hospital, nay, scarcely heard of 
 one ; even a doctor is a new experience. Hoping 
 against hope, she lingered long, before at length 
 she ventured forth to what, in her mind, might 
 be death to her only son. It was a supreme 
 effort of faith. 
 
 The telltale thermometer warns me that the 
 temperature of the boy has risen one degree^ 
 and there is a slight flush about the cheek — 
 the pulse rate has reached a hundred. The boy 
 is drowsy from a dose of morphine given be- 
 cause he must not move at any cost. In spite 
 of it, he is restless between short snatches of 
 
 sleep. He must be closely watched. 
 208 
 
She Hath Done What She Could 
 
 A patient coughing noisily in the next ward — 
 there is only a wooden partition between us — ^has 
 awakened him. He has asked for a drink. Two 
 teaspoonfuls of cold water is all I dare give him 
 for the next twenty-four hours. He must have 
 no more at one time — Thank God, he is asleep 
 again. 
 
 After all what does it matter? It is only a 
 fisherman's boy from the wilds. Who will care 
 if a hundred such are carried seaward to- 
 morrow, as they go seal-hunting on the ice floes ? 
 Who would care in the busy world outside, 
 steeped in its own anxiety and cares — ^mindful 
 only of its own joys and sorrows? It is cut off 
 by wastes of ice and snow from this lone land, 
 so that even the story could only reach their 
 ears when the event is almost forgotten, who 
 would care? — who should care? 
 
 Here in this silent night watch, with no one to 
 speak to, one's thoughts go flying now across 
 the sea — to my home in England. It is peace 
 and quiet there. If I was only there, I needn't 
 see these things, need take none of these respon- 
 sibilities. Oh, if I could get back there, and leave 
 others to themselves. Then, at least, I should 
 
 get rest from this gnawing anxiety, for a child, 
 209 
 
She Hath Done What She Could 
 
 whom I never saw till yesterday — and of whom 
 once I could say, " He is nothing to me." 
 
 There is a stir in the bed. It makes me drop 
 my pencil, and a queer feeling rushes through 
 me, as I see that Willie's large brown eyes are 
 open and evidently fixed on me. How closely 
 he seems to be watching me. Surely he could 
 not have known my thoughts? No. It is the 
 loneliness of the night that makes one foolishly 
 credulous. Buf suppose he had read them — and 
 I calling myself a missionary. 
 
 Thank God, he only asked for another drop 
 of cold water — and for a pillov\r to be moved 
 because, already he is " so tired of lying." 
 
 Why all this restlessness ? Can there be some- 
 thing going wrong with the wound ? Alas, it is 
 the imperfect work of my own hand. Alas, alas ! 
 What a poor instrument to represent the Master. 
 Surely he might have sent a better surgeon than 
 me — at least some one with a patience and love 
 a little more akin to his own. 
 
 What would I not give for a consultation now 
 — such as one got so readily in the old hospital 
 at home. What price would I not pay for the 
 advice of some great physician. Alas, even this 
 wish is born, first of all, from a desire for relief 
 
 210 
 
She Hath Done What She Could 
 
 for myself rather than to save the boy's life — 
 born of a desire to get rid of responsibility, and 
 put it on the shoulders of any one willing to 
 bear it. 
 
 Thoughts of the past now fly hurrying 
 through my brain. Surely one might have been 
 better fitted. How many hours I lost when just 
 the knowledge now needed so much might have 
 been gained. How many — 
 
 A dog has started howling outside. He is 
 joined in loud chorus by all my four-footed 
 friends, over twenty in number. Hundreds of 
 miles they have carried me already across hill 
 and dale, over sea and land, raid snow and ice. 
 Now, out on the snow in this bitter cold, with 
 only the stars overhead, they are contentedly 
 making their beds this night. Few pleasures, as 
 we know them, ever fall to their lot. Meat, in 
 great frozen blocks, is the best food they know 
 of, and that is often far too scarce. Yet, with 
 every sign of affectionate joy, they will come 
 leaping up to greet me in the morning. In spite 
 of everything they will be ready — ^yes, and more 
 than ready, eager to work for me again, and 
 plod on at it till I have seen them drop dead un- 
 complaining, in their very traces. 
 
 211 
 
She Hath Done What She Could 
 
 They have brought me back to the reality of 
 things. They seem an inspiration to come back 
 to the hard facts again. Here am I, with but 
 poor talents — God help me — and here is this lit- 
 tle lad. His life must be saved. I must save it. It 
 must be done now, and I must do it. The time 
 and place offer to no one else this "opportunity" 
 to be the instrument. True, it is no greater, 
 perhaps, than other opportunities — i)ut then, in 
 reality all opportunities are great. Yes, and each 
 is vast in importance, for it comes only once. 
 Never again. Never. Am I not even now ex- 
 pecting to hear the footfall of the child's mother 
 over the crisp snow outside? Though scarcely 
 daring to risk an answer, she is coming to ask me 
 "the news." Yes, the news — no news in the 
 world is so important to her. 
 
 What can I do ? Thank God, the boy is quiet 
 again now. For myself, I can almost feel the 
 silence. Only the clock, ticking outside, reminds 
 me that the hand of time alone is never still. It 
 suggests that opportunities are passing. Is 
 there anything more I can do? Anything? My 
 worried brain gives me no help. I seem to have 
 done all that I can — My whirling thoughts 
 have gone again. As a spark from the electric 
 
 212 
 
She Hath Done What She Could 
 
 button they are flashing back to familiar words, 
 "She hath done what she could," and now they 
 fly to Him who spoke them, while the clock out- 
 side seems to keep ticking at me, "Have you?" 
 "Have you?" "Have you?" 
 
 All she could. How true they are. Yes, our 
 powers are very, very limited. 
 
 No, no. He meant more than that. Is it that 
 there is a better man present in this room after 
 all? Does it mean that that very friend I have 
 been so keenly wanting is really near after all? 
 Can my professional mind think of Him as of 
 much real value here in this prosaic operating 
 theater as the " second opinion " I have been 
 groaning for? Something within me resents the 
 hope as merely a creation of my own desire. But 
 if it is true then whatever I feared that the lad 
 saw with those great eyes of his. He must surely 
 know. And those unworthy thoughts of a while 
 ago — Can it be that here and now, in a place 
 where emotion is pre-eminently at a discount, 
 I can really shake the burden of responsibility 
 off on Him, and so get rest from this anxiety? 
 
 Prayer is not to replace action — the Old Book 
 
 itself says so. Faith, without works, cannot save 
 
 this boy, I am certain. The Old Book is too 
 213 
 
She Hath Done What She Could 
 
 genuine to suggest fatuous words as a narcotic 
 for incompetence, if there has been carelessness 
 or sloth. Perhaps here — on our very beam ends 
 — His words mean more. Yes — in spite of His 
 seeing our lamentable " left-undones " His love 
 will allow the emphasis to fall on the first three, 
 not the last two, words. May I believe it ? The 
 Master means, "She has done . . . now is 
 the time for me." 
 
 How often, in a long so-called " service," has 
 the monotoned formula, " Let us pray," served 
 but to usher in another chance of dozing on one's 
 knees. Can I without cant — ^here alone in the 
 darkness — really expecting something that will 
 do the boy good — can I pray ? . . . 
 - Three days have passed. The crisis is over. 
 The mother is even now sitting for a few mo- 
 ments, her heart too full to speak, by her boy's 
 bedside. I saw her kiss him, yes, and a tear fall 
 on his face as she bent over him — so I closed 
 the door and waited outside. 
 
 After all, perhaps it was worth while. There 
 
 is a feeling of wonderful joy in my own heart, I 
 
 know. I am perfectly certain that gold trinkets 
 
 and such things as some call valuables can never 
 
 bring this kind of joy. The very thought of 
 214 
 
She Hath Done What She Could 
 
 such things cheating any one thus, brings a smile 
 of pity to one's lips. God give you your joys in 
 service, dear readers. We owe you much down 
 here, though you may think it little. You have 
 sent of your means and of your prayers. You 
 have sent us words of cheer. You have paid — 
 who knows — for the very knife that wrought this 
 joy, God bless you, and give you many more, 
 such joys, fellow-workers. 
 
 Will it not be grand when cruising next sum- 
 mer to visit this boy at his home ? What a joyful 
 meeting it will be ! The approach to the harbor 
 is narrow, and ofttimes dreadful. But this time 
 it will be filled with the joy of anticipation. 
 
 May your hearts make your faces radiant with 
 this same joy when you are waiting to see for 
 yourselves Him who has promised to consider 
 all these things as " done unto Him." Nay, do 
 not shrink from responsibility. Do not dread 
 the anxiety and the real suffering it so often 
 entails. For in no earthly home will a follower 
 of the Christ escape these things. Only when 
 the golden gates are closed behind us can we 
 expect the rest of heaven. Only, amidst it all, 
 God give you the joys of having ''done what 
 you could," and so give you that JQyful ceunte= 
 "5 
 
She Hath Done What She Could 
 
 nance also which communion with Him has ever 
 given, and must of necessity give — for it reflects 
 his own. 
 
 216 
 
NOT MY WILL, BUT THINE 
 
KtOT MY WILL, BUT THINE 
 
 It was transition time with us. The long win- 
 ter frost, with but one day's thaw since Christ- 
 mas, had collapsed like a house of cards with the 
 advent of May. 
 
 The splendid ice bridges over the great bays 
 had been shattered by the heavy Atlantic rollers, 
 which were now permitted to heave home to the 
 rocks as the wind had driven the ice floe far off 
 shore. 
 
 The hard, smooth roads of beaten snow over 
 the barrens were made impassable by jagged 
 points of rocks, which everywhere now peeped 
 out through them. 
 
 The universal roofing of ice and snow which, 
 all winter, covered the patches of impenetrable 
 scrub, would no longer support the weight of 
 the dogs or sleigh. Even the ice on the numer- 
 ous lakes had become unsafe, while foaming tor- 
 rents replaced the level highways in the river 
 beds which form our highways in the winter. 
 
 No traveling on the land was any longer pos- 
 219 
 
Not My Will, But Thine 
 
 sible. Even skis and snow racquets were no 
 longer of service, and were hanging disconsolate 
 on the walls. The sleighs had been shellacked 
 and stowed away on their lofts till next fall's 
 snow should make them useful again. Our 
 faithful dc^s were already barred into a large 
 enclosure fenced with wire, so that the hospital 
 cow, cooped up in its stable for nearly six months, 
 might come out and hunt for the precarious liv- 
 ing amidst the fast disappearing patches of a 
 winter's snow. 
 
 Traveling by water offered but little better 
 facilities. For the running ice floes from the 
 far north everywhere covered the sea, and 
 threatened with the least veering of the wind to 
 the eastward to blockade the coast in an incred- 
 ibly short space of time. It is not well to be 
 nipped between the ice floe and the rocks. I was 
 once in that position, and thankful to escape 
 from it. There's no good arguing the matter 
 with an ice floe. The only thing to do is to keep 
 out of its way. 
 
 So we were feign to stand by the hospital for 
 the time, and were not sorry, after months of 
 incessant traveling with dogs, to enjoy a " spell " 
 and limit our efforts to the patients that we had 
 
Not My Wm, But Thine 
 
 at hospital, and the people within a mile or two 
 radius from it. 
 
 "There's some men in the waiting room to 
 see you, Doctor," said one of the maids, who had 
 come up the hill to where, with a crowd of young 
 fellows, I was helping to clear some land of 
 alders, and to root out old stumps. It was a 
 preparatory efJfort to improve matters for our 
 cow. 
 
 " Is that so ? Where are they from ? " 
 
 " From the north, I think, Doctor." 
 
 " Well, tell them to wait. I'll be down direct- 
 ly. See that they get some tea and something 
 to eat." 
 
 " Hease, sir, they says it is very important, 
 and they wants to hurry back right away." 
 
 When I reached the hospital I found that the 
 new arrivals were making good progress with 
 the tea. For work like they had just been 
 through converts this into ambrosial nectar to 
 our fisherfolk. It is the custom to offer it at 
 all times of the day to any and all who visit the 
 house. 
 
 "What's wrong, Nat?" I asked. "Some 
 craft on the rocks, I suppose." 
 
 " 'Tis Mark Rawson's Aleck, Doctor. He be 
 
 221 
 
Not My Wm, But Thine 
 
 terrible sick. We'm come to see if you be so well 
 pleased to come down along with us." 
 
 " Is he sick enough to die ? " 
 
 " Well now, he h'aint knowed nobody since 
 Saturday, and that be three days gone." 
 
 " How is the ice, Nat, coming up ? " 
 
 " She be well off now. T'wind canted off the 
 land about midnight, and you'se can go right 
 down straight." 
 
 "All right, Nat. You can start as soon as 
 you like. I'll come along after you in the motor 
 launch." 
 
 The medicine chest that travels with our dog 
 sleigh in winter is marked in large letters, "Lend- 
 a-hand!" It stands ready for duty all spring 
 until the sea is open, and forms the movable 
 dispensary during that time on the boats. 
 
 So we were not long making our prepara- 
 tions, and were soon bowling along northward 
 ho, a fine wind following us. 
 
 The wind freshening, and the night closing in 
 very thick, we at last determined to heave to, 
 and make a harbor some two miles to the south- 
 ward of our patient's home. It was already late 
 before we had walked across an intervening neck 
 of land. As we approached the house it was 
 
Not My Will, But Thine 
 
 getting on to midnight, and so dark that when 
 at last we reached the promontory opposite the 
 island on which the house was stationed, we al- 
 most fell over the fisherman father who had been 
 patiently waiting on the off chance that we 
 might possibly come by the mainland, as we 
 could not reach by sea. " I suspicioned you 
 might come this way. Doctor," he remarked. 
 He meant that he had earnestly been praying 
 that we might attempt to push on by the land. 
 His faith had taken form in hours of waiting 
 in the dark here on the beach with his boat. It 
 was the testimony of his faith. It was the effort 
 part of his prayer. 
 
 A little wooden cottage was perched on a rocky 
 ledge under the aegis of huge, almost overhang- 
 ing cliffs. The scanty foreshore fell straight 
 down into deep blue water, so that we stepped 
 almost from the boat into the house. A strong 
 feeling came over one that nature was anxious 
 to shoulder out the human life from the place 
 altogether. 
 
 When we opened the door to enter, the sub- 
 dued light of a half-turned-up kerosene lamp, 
 small enough at the best of times, was just suffi- 
 cient to show me a crowd of people solemnly 
 223 
 
Not My Wm, But Thine 
 
 huddled together in the tiny room that served 
 as both kitchen and parlor. It was a bad omen, 
 I knew, for when anyone is thought to be sick 
 unto death on this coast, just such a lugubrious, 
 silent crowd gathers to " see the end." 
 
 On a low, rude table at one end of the room 
 was a bundle of heterogeneous bed-clothes, and 
 on this, visible to all, lay the body of a beautiful 
 little boy of four years — a regular curly-haired, 
 rosy-faced fisher lad. 
 
 The weeping mother rose as I entered, and 
 with one hand covering her eyes with her hand- 
 kerchief, as if she did not wish to see the sight, 
 led me over to the child's side without speaking. 
 
 There was a perfect stillness in the room. No 
 one spoke a word. Only the stertorous breath- 
 ing of the sick child broke the silence as I bent 
 over to form some idea of what I had to deal with. 
 
 " How long since he knew you ? " I asked, 
 obliged to lay my hand on the mother's shoulder 
 to call her attention. 
 
 Waiting in vain to stem the tears which she 
 
 sought hard to restrain, she sobbed out at last : 
 
 " Not since Saturday, Doctor. My own boy 
 
 didn't know me." 
 
 Only a cursory examination was necessary to 
 224 
 
Not My WiU, But Thine 
 
 satisfy me that the child's only chance for life 
 lay in an immediate operation. It would involve 
 the removal of a portion of the skull, and would 
 be quite impracticable unless I could get the 
 child to hospital. 
 
 But then at once the vision of fifteen miles of 
 angry ocean that lay between us, and the child 
 in this condition tossed about in our small boat 
 prevented my saying what I thought. It seemed 
 a pity to suggest that any means might save the 
 child if one had only to add that that means 
 were not available. 
 
 I was roused, however, from my brief reverie 
 by a sudden consciousness that the mother was 
 watching me. And even through her tears was 
 trying to read for herself the truth which she 
 seemed to be conscious already that I was in- 
 tending to withhold from her. 
 
 She spoke first. " What is it, Doctor? " She 
 had looked up, and I seemed to see in her face 
 a courage that I thought she did not possess. 
 My mind was made up in an instant. 
 
 ■' There's only one hope I can offer you, dear 
 friend, and even that is but a faint one. If he 
 were my boy I should at once take him to the 
 hospital." 
 
 225 
 
Not My WiU, But Thine 
 
 A still more absolute silence seemed to fall 
 immediately on the room; so silent, you could 
 almost feel it. For all these kindly meaning 
 friends were also hanging on the Doctor's 
 words, and again the loud, measured breathing 
 of the unconscious lad, like the ticking of some 
 great clock, was alone audible. 
 
 At length an older woman, rising from her 
 seat, came over to where we were standing, and, 
 taking the hand of the poor mother, encouraged 
 her to take even this forlorn chance. 
 
 A little pause and then, with an energy and 
 directness I had little expected, she looked me 
 bravely in the face and said, " I will, Doctor ; 
 anything and anywhere to save my darling." 
 
 " His life is in higher hands than ours. No 
 mortal can certainly promise to give you Aleck's 
 life. All we can say is that as far as we know 
 the hospital offers him his only chance for life." 
 
 "Then I'll come," she said eagerly. "When 
 shall we start?" 
 
 It was dark as pitch outside, and we had yet 
 to snatch some sleep. So we arranged to return 
 and find shelter in a cottage near our boat, and 
 that a party should be told off to bring the 
 motherland child to us soon after daylight. 
 226 
 
Not My Wm, But Thine 
 
 Once again we were on the main land, and 
 the deep, broad arm of the sea separated us from 
 the house of sorrow. As I stumbled along over 
 the rocky path, recent events kept revolving in 
 my mind. Why cross that separating arm at all ? 
 Why seek trouble thus naturally shut off, as it 
 were? Why add to cares by bringing the sor- 
 rows of others voluntarily into our lives ? What 
 a relief to shake clear of it all in the cool night 
 air that cleared one's head, when at last we top- 
 ped the brow of the hill — what a relief it would 
 be to leave it all behind. 
 
 Yet, no — one's heart was going back over the 
 water in the boat with that solitary father. In 
 my mind I could still hear the plash of the oars, 
 and they seemed to beat out in the mystery of 
 that darkness a sweet refrain that to the Chris- 
 tian makes any work welcome — " ye did it unto 
 me — unto me — unto me." 
 
 There was a tiny light in one of the fishermen's 
 houses. All the rest had gone to bed long ago. 
 But I recognized that the window was that of a 
 room I had twice occupied on my winter travels. 
 As I expected, the door was on the latch, so, 
 going in quietly, I went upstairs to find every- 
 thing ready, because, as the good fellow ex- 
 227 
 
Not My Wm, But Thine 
 
 plained in the morning, " I mistrusted somehow, 
 Doctor, you'se might like to come back over 
 night." 
 
 It was an evidence of a fellow feeling and of a 
 courtesy that is not uncommon among our 
 tender-hearted people, thank God. 
 
 The little party with the child arrived before 
 we were even stirring — though in truth they 
 needed sleep far more than we did. But true 
 love is ever self-effacing, and they betrayed no 
 signs of their long watch. 
 
 The wind had come in from the southeast and 
 was dead ahead, and though nothing was said, 
 we all knew that the sea voyage in the small 
 launch would be anything but pleasant. The 
 mother was seated in the small scuddy, well 
 propped up with boards, to keep her from being 
 thrown about by the pitching and rolling of our 
 little craft. The unconscious child, in heavy 
 wraps, lay across her knee. A tatpaulin was 
 fixed in a small frame to keep the flying water 
 and the wind off, as much as possible. Steering 
 myself involved standing close to them, and I 
 could keep an eye on how they were getting on. 
 Up to the first hour the mother, who was very 
 sea-sick, caught my eye, and though she had 
 228 
 
Not My WiU, But Thine 
 
 several times assured me she desired no help, 
 I learnt without any doubt that all her strength 
 and energy was being taxed to the utmost. 
 
 " You want some help. Let me take the child 
 for a bit. You can lie down on the locker, and 
 perhaps you'll feel better." " No, thank you," 
 she replied, and bent down, crooning over the 
 child as before. 
 
 Another hour had passed away. As yet she 
 had not uttered another word. The sudden and 
 violent jumping of our boat in the head sea must 
 have shaken her all to pieces. Yet all she said 
 was, "Is it very far still?" "No; that is St. 
 Anthony head on our bow. We should have 
 been round it by now, but for this seaway. Won't 
 you let me take the child for a bit now? You 
 shall have it back when we get into the smoother 
 water around the head." " I can hold on a little 
 longer, thank you," and again she was crooning 
 over her child. 
 
 At length we were alongside the wharf. 
 
 Though strong and willing arms offered to 
 
 bear the burden, the mother would trust it to 
 
 no one till she laid it in the hospital, and our 
 
 good nurse was allowed to put it to bed. 
 
 A few hours, and the operation was over, and 
 229 
 
Not My Wm, But Thine 
 
 the little lad was back in his bed once more. The 
 pressure on its brain had been relieved. It 
 even spoke, and in the mother's eyes, as she 
 came into the ward and bent over the bed, one 
 could see the intensity of longing that it might 
 still know her, and once more speak to her. 
 Hope, indeed, burnt fiercely in all our hearts for 
 a time that even yet this little life might be given 
 us. But he who loves the children knew best, 
 and slowly, but surely this tiny vital spark flick- 
 ered out. 
 
 When I ventured up to the ward again the 
 violence of the first burst of sorrow had some- 
 what subsided. The poor woman was sitting, 
 as if exhausted, by the bedside, and yielded more 
 readily than I had anticipated to the suggestion 
 that she should go and take some rest. 
 
 When everything had been got ready, I ven- 
 tured to ask this broken-hearted mother if she 
 would face the journey back in the launch with 
 her sad burden. 
 
 I was prepared to forgive an hysterical re- 
 joinder, but she spoke calmly, even cheerfully. 
 "No, Doctor, thank you, it is more than I could 
 face now. I'll wait for the mail steamer next 
 
 week, if I may." 
 
 230 
 
Not My Wm, But Thine 
 
 The stimulus of hope that had buoyed 
 on the previous voyage had died out. 
 thank God, no void had been left in its 
 Her heart was filled with a peace that 
 understanding, a hope that robs death 
 sting and the grave of its victory, 
 she knew that though the child should) 
 turn to her, yet she should surely go t 
 
 The four days' watch by the little 
 alone, as it were, fifteen miles from 
 and friends, would be a trying experiince 
 best of times. We were afraid thatf worn 
 as she was, it would be torture to he 
 bore it bravely, and when at lengtp 
 boat came in, and we shook hands, 
 look beyond the valley of shadows, Ane 
 in spite of her bitter failure, it wag 
 triumph, and not a wail of despai^ that\ was 
 filling her soul. And it lessened the* 
 as she said : " Good-bye, Doctor, may God re- 
 ward you for your kindness to me and mine." 
 
 231 
 
HOW SANTA CLAUS CAME TO CAPE 
 ST. ANTHONY 
 
HOW SANTA CLAUS CAME TO CAPE 
 ST. ANTHONY 
 
 A universal robe of white had long covered 
 cur country-side, hiding every vestige of our 
 rocky soil, and every trace of the great summer 
 fishery. The mail steamer had paid its last visit 
 for six months ; and thus the last link with civ- 
 ilization was broken. Even the loitering sea- 
 ducks and lesser auks had left us. The iron 
 grip of winter lay on sea and shore. 
 
 At its best, the land here scarcely suggests 
 the word "country" to a southerner — scarcely 
 even the word " moors." For the rock is every- 
 where close to the surface, and mosses and 
 lichens are its chief products. The larger part 
 of the country we call "barrens." Few of the 
 houses deserve even to be called cottages, for all 
 are of light, rough wood. Most are of only 
 one story, and contain but two rooms. The 
 word " huts " would convey a more accurate 
 idea of these humble abodes. The settlements 
 themselves are small and scattered, and at this 
 235 
 
How Santa Claus Came 
 
 time the empty tilts of the summer fishermen 
 give a still more desolate aspect to these lonely 
 habitations. 
 
 Early in December we had been dumped from 
 the little mail steamer on the harbor ice about 
 half a mile from shore, and hauled up to the 
 little Mission hospital, where we were to make 
 our headquarters for the winter. The name of 
 our harbor was St. Anthony. Christmas was 
 close upon us. The prospect of enjoying the 
 conventional pleasures of the season was not 
 bright. Not unnaturally our thoughts went over 
 the sea to the family gathering at home, at 
 which our places would be vacant. We should 
 miss the holly and mistletoe, the roast beef and 
 plum-pudding, the inevitable crackers, and the 
 giving and receiving of presents, which had al- 
 ways seemed essential to a full enjoyment of 
 the Christmas holiday. 
 
 We soon found that few of the children here 
 had ever possessed a toy; and that there was 
 scarcely a single girl that o\yned a doll. Now 
 and again one would see, nailed high up on the 
 wall, well out of reach of the children, a flimsy, 
 cheaply painted doll; and the mother would ex- 
 plain that her " Pa had got un from a trader, 
 336 
 
How Santa Claus Came 
 
 sir, for thirty cents. No, us don't allow Nellie 
 to have it, 'feared lest she might spoil un" — a 
 fear I found to be only too well grounded when 
 I came to examine its anatomy more closely. 
 
 Christmas-trees in plenty grew near the hos- 
 pital ; and we could easily arrange for a " Father 
 Christmas." The only question was, whether 
 our stock of toys would justify us in inviting so 
 many children as would want to come. It is 
 easy to satisfy children like these, however, and 
 so we announced that we expected Santa Claus 
 on a certain day. There was great talk about 
 the affair. Whispers reached us that Aunt Mary 
 thought her Joe weren't too big to come; sure, 
 he'd be only sixteen. May White was only 
 going eighteen, and she would so like to come. 
 Old Daddy Gilliam would like to sit in a corner. 
 He'd never seen a Christmas-tree, and he was 
 nigh on eighty. We were obliged to yield, and 
 with guilty consciences expected twice as many 
 as the room would hold. All through the day 
 before the event the Sister was busy making 
 buns; and it was even whispered that a barrel 
 of apples had been carried over to the " Room." 
 
 In the evening a sick call carried me north to 
 a tiny place on the Straits of Belle Isle, where 
 237 
 
How Santa Claus Came 
 
 a woman lay in great pain, and by all accounts 
 dying. The dogs were in great form, and travel- 
 ing was fair enough till we came to a great arm 
 of the sea, which lay right in our path, and was 
 only recently caught over with young ice. To 
 reach the other shore we had to make a wide 
 detour, bumping our way along the rough edge 
 of the old standing ice. Even here the salt wa- 
 ter came up through the snow, and the dogs 
 sank to their shoulders in a cold mush that 
 made each mile into half a dozen. We began 
 to think that our chance of getting back in time 
 on the morrow was small indeed. We were also 
 wondering that it seemed to be a real disappoint- 
 ment to ourselves that we should miss the hum- 
 ble attempt at Christmas keeping. 
 
 One thing went a long way toward reconciling 
 us to the disappointment. The case we had 
 come to see proved to be one in which skilled 
 help was of real service. So we were a con- 
 tented company round the log fire in the little 
 hut, as we sat listening to stories from one and 
 another of the neighbors, who, according to cus- 
 tom, had dropped in to see the stranger. Before 
 long my sleeping bag was loudly calling to me 
 
 after the exercise of the day, " We must be off 
 238 
 
How Santa Claus Came 
 
 by dawn, Uncle Phil, for there's no counting on 
 these short days, and we have promised to see 
 that Santa Claus is in time for the Christmas- 
 tree to-morrow night at St. Anthony." Soon, 
 stretched out on the floor, we slept as soundly 
 as in a feather bed. 
 
 Only a few minutes seemed to have passed 
 when, " 'Twill be dawning shortly. Doctor," in 
 the familiar tones of my driver's voice, came 
 filtering into my bag. " Right you are, Rube ; 
 put the kettle on and call the dogs; I will be 
 ready in a couple of shakes." 
 
 Oh, what a glorious morning! An absolute 
 stillness, and the air as sweet as sugar. Every- 
 where a mantle of perfect white below, a fath- 
 omless depth of cloudless blue overhead — and 
 the first radiance of the coming day blending 
 one into the other with a rich, transparent red. 
 The bracing cold made one feel twenty years 
 younger. We found it a hard job to tackle up 
 the dogs, they were so mad to be off. As we 
 topped the first hill the great bay that had 
 caused us so much trouble lay below us, and my 
 driver gave a joyous shout. "Hurrah, Doctor! 
 there's a lead for us," Far out on the ice he 
 had spied a black speck moving toward the op- 
 *39 
 
How Santa Claus Came 
 
 posite shore. A komatik had ventured over the 
 young ice, and to follow it would mean a saving 
 of five miles to us. 
 
 We had made a good landing and scaled the 
 opposite hill, and were galloping over the high 
 barrens, when the dogs began to give tongue, 
 loudly announcing that a team was coming from 
 the opposite direction. As we drew near, a muf- 
 fled figure jumped oflf, and, hauling his dogs to 
 one side, shouted the customary, " What 
 cheer?" 
 
 Then a surprised, "The Doctor, as I live! 
 You're the very man I'm after. Why, there's 
 Itomatiks gone all over the country after you. 
 A lad has shot hisself down at St. Ronald's, and 
 he's bleeding shocking." 
 
 " All right, Jake, old friend. The turn for the 
 path is off the big pond, is it not? " 
 
 " That's it. Doctor, but I'm coming along any- 
 how, 'feared I might be wanted." 
 
 My little leader must have overheard this 
 conversation, for she simply flew over the hills. 
 Yet it was already dusk when at length we shot 
 down the semi-precipice on the side of which 
 the little house clings like a barnacle. The anx- 
 ious crowd, gathered to await our arrival, dis- 
 240 
 
How Santa Claus Came 
 
 appeared before the avalanche, like a morning 
 mist when the sun rises. Following directions, 
 I found myself in a tiny, naked room, already 
 filled with well-meaning visitors, though they 
 were able to do nothing but look on and defile 
 what little air made its way in through the fixed 
 windows. Fortunately, for want of putty, air 
 leaked in around the glasses. 
 
 Stretched on the floor behind the stove lay a 
 pale-faced boy of about ten years. His clothes 
 had been taken off, and an old patchwork quilt 
 covered his body. His right thigh was covered 
 with a heterogeneous mass of bloody rags. Sit- 
 ting by him was his mother, her forehead rest- 
 ing in her hands as if she were wrestling with 
 some inscrutable problem. She rose as I en- 
 tered, and without waiting for questions, broke 
 out with: '"Tis Clem, Doctor. He got Dick 
 here to give him the gun to try and shoot a gull, 
 and there were a high ballicater of ice in the 
 way, and he were trying to climb up over it, 
 and he pushed the gun before him with the bar'l 
 turned t'wards hisself, and she went off and shot 
 him, and us doesn't know what to do next — 
 next, and — " 
 
 While she ran on with her story I cleared the 
 241 
 
How Santa Claus Came 
 
 room of visitors, and, kneeling down by the boy, 
 removed the dirty mass of rags that had been 
 used to staunch the blood. The charge had 
 entered the thigh at close quarters above the 
 knee, and passed downwards, blowing the knee- 
 cap to pieces. Most of it had passed out again. 
 The loose fragments of bone still adhering to 
 the ragged flesh, the fragments of clothing 
 blown into it, and the foul smell and discolora- 
 tion added by the gimpowder make the outlook 
 a very ugly one. Moreover, there rose to my 
 mind the memory of a similar case in which we 
 had come too late, blood poisoning having 
 set in, and the child having died after much 
 suffering. 
 
 The mother had by this time quieted down, 
 and was simply repeating, " What shall us do ? " 
 
 " There's only one thing to be done. We 
 must pack Clem up and carry him to the hos- 
 pital right away." 
 
 " Iss, Doctor, that's the only way, I'm think- 
 ing," she replied. " An' I suppose you'll cut 
 off his leg, and he'll never walk no more, and 
 Oh, dear! what—" 
 
 " Come, tear up this calico into strips and 
 
 bring me some boiling water — mind, it must be 
 242 
 
How Santa Claus Came 
 
 well boiled ; and get me that board over there — 
 'twill serve to make a splint; and then go and 
 tell Dick to get the dogs ready at once ; for we've 
 a Christmas tree at St. Anthony to-night, and 
 I must be back at all costs." 
 
 In this way we kept her too busy to worry 
 or hesitate about letting the child go; for we 
 well knew it was his only chance, and she had 
 never seen a hospital, and the idea of one was 
 as terrifying as a morgue. 
 
 " Home, home, home ! " to the dogs — ^and 
 once again our steel runners are humming over 
 the crisp snow. Now in the darkness we are 
 clinging tightly to our hand-ropes as we shoot 
 over the hills. Now the hospital lights are com- 
 ing up, and now the lights in the windows of 
 the " Room." As we get near they look so nu- 
 merous and so cheerful that we seem to be ap- 
 proaching a town. Now we can hear the merry 
 ring of the children's voices, and can make out a 
 crowd of figures gathered around the doorway. 
 They are waiting for the tardy arrival of 
 " Sandy Claws." Of course, we are at once 
 recognized, and there is a general hush of dis- 
 appointment as if they had thought at last 
 " Sandy " himself was come. 
 243 
 
How Santa Claus Came 
 
 " He is only a little way behind us," we 
 shouted. " He is coming like a whirlwind. Look 
 out everybody -when he gets here. Don't get too 
 close ; to his dogs',"' " - - 
 
 ' Only a little while later, and , the . harking of 
 idogs V announces ^'the; approach -of. the, other 
 komatik. But we "alone are in the secret- of its 
 real mission. • Sdme'X>ne is calling from the "dark- 
 ness, and a- long sleigh with a ! double-banked 
 team of dogs bas drawn up opposite the door- 
 way. Two fur-clad-figures standing by^it, steady 
 a huge box Avhich is .lashed upon it. The light 
 shining on the near one reveals of his muffled 
 face only two.- sparkling eyes and large icicles 
 bristling over the muffler, from heavy' mustache 
 and whiskers, like the ivory tusks of some old 
 bull walrus. Both figures are panting with exer- 
 tion, and blowing out great clouds of steam like 
 galloping horses on a frosty mornings There 
 could be no doubt about it, this time. Here was 
 the real Sandy Claws at last, come mysteriously 
 over the snows with' his dogs and komatik and 
 big box and all ! 
 
 The excitement of the crowd, already intense 
 
 from anxiety over our own delay, now knew no 
 
 bounds. Where had they come from? What 
 244 
 
< 
 -I 
 u 
 
 < 
 I- 
 
 z 
 < 
 
How Santa Claus Came 
 
 could be in that big box ? How large it looked 
 in the darkness! Could it have really been 
 dragged all the way from the North Pole? 
 Luckily, no one had the courage left to go near 
 enough to discover the truth. 
 
 The hospital door was swung open, and a 
 loud voice cried out : " Welcome, welcome, 
 Sandy Claws ! We're all so glad you've come ; 
 we thought you'd forgotten us. Come right in. 
 Come right in ! Oh, no ! don't think of undoing 
 the box outside; why, you'll freeze all those 
 toys out there ! Just unlash it and bring it right 
 in as it is. Come in ; there's a cup of tea waiting 
 for you before you go over to start your tree 
 growing fruit." 
 
 There had been rumors all the week that 
 Sandy Claws would bring his wife this year. 
 There had been whispers even of a baby. So 
 we could explain the second man; for the Es- 
 kimo men and women all dress alike in Labra- 
 dor, which would account for Mrs. Claws' 
 strange taste in clothes. A discreet silence was 
 observed about her frozen whiskers. 
 
 A few minutes later another large box was 
 carried over to the "Room.' It was full of 
 emptiness, for the toys were on the tree long 
 24S 
 
How Santa Claus Came 
 
 ago. But two strange masked and bewigged 
 figures stumbled over the snow with it, to carry 
 the little drama to its close. So complete was 
 the faith in the unearthly origin of these our 
 guests, that when the curtain went up more 
 than one voice was heard to be calling out for 
 " Ma " and " Dad," while a lad of several sum- 
 mers was found hidden under the seat, when it 
 came his turn to go up and get his " prize." 
 
 And so Santa Claus came to St. Anthony, and 
 brought a gift for us as well as presents for the 
 children. Indeed, the best was the one he had 
 kept for us, who had so unworthily thought that 
 the outlook for a happy Christmas was but a 
 poor one. Sleeping overhead, in a clean, white 
 cot, free of pain, and with a good fighting chance 
 for his life, lay our bright-faced lad — Clem. The 
 gift to us this Christmas day was the chance to 
 save his life. We would not have exchanged it 
 for any gift we had ever heard of. At the old 
 home, where doctors are plentiful, such a gift 
 were impossible. 
 
 " The great life-giving gift to the world that 
 Christmas stands for, was to be ours to thus 
 faintly re-echo on this needy, far-off shore." 
 
 Christmas has gone long ago. Already we 
 246 
 
How Santa Claus Came 
 
 have heard ominous groaning of the heavy ice 
 along the land-wash, warning us that the open 
 sea is getting nearer, and that soon our icy fet- 
 ters will be broken. The toys and trinkets from 
 the poor spruce tree have already lost most of 
 their pleasure-giving powers. Must it not al- 
 ways be so, at last, with the things we are apt 
 to call " valuables." 
 
 " Clem " has gone to his home again. He is 
 able to run and walk like the merry lad he is. 
 For not only his life, but his limb also, has been 
 saved to him. And we have been taught once 
 more that the true joy of Christmas — nay the 
 true joy of Christ the Lord — comes ever of " giv- 
 ing " and not of " getting." 
 
 To all these opportunities are given if we 
 will only see them. By word and by deed how 
 many more we should find were ever being 
 offered us, to make the brief day of life fuller 
 and richer, if we but sought them with half the 
 eagerness with which we pursue least worthy 
 ends. 
 
 How glorious — ^how valuable — does every mo- 
 ment of life become when once we see that we 
 have been placed of God here in this world " for 
 others;" placed here for the same reason that 
 247 
 
How Santa Claus Came 
 
 He was given to the world on the first Christ- 
 mas Day. 
 
 Alas, alas, that we have ever been blind enough 
 to think it was " cant " to say, " It is more blessed 
 to give than to receive." 
 
 248 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR 6013.R41O5 
 
 Off the rocks; stories of the deep-sea f i 
 
 3 1924 013 621 903