Le Petit Nord | Page 4

course the scenery is beautiful--almost too trite to write--but the
beauty is lonesome and terrifying, and my city-bred soul longs for
some good, homely, human "blot on the landscape." There are no trees
on the cliffs now. I understand, however, that Nature is not responsible
for this oversight. The people are sorely in need of firewood, and not
being far-seeing enough to realize what a menace it is to the country to
denude it so unscientifically, they have razed every treelet. Nature has
done her best to rectify their mistake, and the rocky hills are covered
with jolly bright mosses and lichens.
Naturally, there are compensations for even this kind of voyage, for no
swell can make itself felt through the heavy ice pack. We steam along

for miles on a keel so even that only the throb of our engines, and the
inevitable "ship-py" odour, remind one that the North Atlantic rolls
beneath the staunch little steamer.
The "staunch little steamer's" whistle has just made a noise out of all
proportion to its size. It reminded me of an English sparrow's blatant
personality. We have turned into a "tickle," and around the bend ahead
of us are a handful of tiny whitewashed cottages clinging to the sides of
the rocky shore.
I cannot get used to the quaint language of the people, and from the
helpless way in which they stare at me, my tongue must be equally
unintelligible. A delightful camaraderie exists; every one knows every
one else, or they all act as if they did. As we come to anchor in the little
ports, the men from the shore lash their punts fast to the bottom of the
ship's ladder, and clamber with gazelle-like agility over our side. If you
happen to be leaning curiously over the rail near by, they jerk their
heads and remark, "Good morning," or, "Good evening," according as
it is before or after midday. This is an afternoon-less country. The day
is divided into morning, evening, and night. Their caps seem to have
been born on their heads and to continue to grow there like their hair, or
like the clothing of the children of Israel, which fitted them just as well
when they came out of the wilderness as when they went in. But no
incivility is meant. You may dissect the meaning and grammar of that
paragraph alone. You have had long practice in such puzzles.

Seventy-five miles later
We are out of the ice field and steaming past Cape St. John. This was
the dividing line between the English and French in the settlement of
their troubles in 1635. North of it is called the French or Treaty Shore,
or as the French themselves so much more quaintly named it, "Le Petit
Nord." It is at the north end of Le Petit Nord that St. Antoine is located.
The very character of the country and vegetation has changed. It is as if
the great, forbidding fortress of St. John's Cape cut off the milder

influences of southern Newfoundland, and left the northern peninsula a
prey to ice and winds and fog. The people, too, have felt the influence
of this discrimination of Nature. There is a line of demarcation between
those who have been able to enjoy the benefits of the southern island,
and those who have had to cope with the recurrent problems of the
northland. I cannot help thinking of the change this shore must have
been from their beloved and smiling Brittany to those first eager
Frenchmen. The names on the map reveal their pathetic attempts to
stifle their nostalgie by christening the coves and harbours with the
familiar titles of their homeland.
I fear in my former letter I made some rather disparaging remarks about
certain ocean liners, but I want to take them all back. Life is a series of
comparisons and in retrospect the steamer on which I crossed seems a
veritable floating palace. I offer it my humble apologies. Of one thing
only I am certain--I shall never, never have the courage to face the
return journey.
The time for the steamer to make the journey from Come-by-Chance to
St. Antoine is from four to five days, but when there is much ice these
days have been known to stretch to a month. The distance in mileage is
under three hundred, but because of the many harbours into which the
boat has to put to land supplies, it is really a much greater distance.
There are thirty-three ports of call between St. John's and St. Antoine,
most of which are tiny fishing settlements consisting of a few wooden
houses at the water's edge. This coast possesses scores of the most
wonderful natural harbours, which are not only extremely picturesque,
but which alone make