Le Petit Nord | Page 6

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

Evidently the people of the country think that every man bound for the
Mission is a doctor, and every woman a nurse. If my Puritan
conscience had not blocked the way, I could have made a considerable
sum prescribing for the ailments of my fellow passengers. One little
thin woman on board has just confided to me, "Why, miss, I found
myself in my stomach three times last week"--and looked up for advice.
As for me, I was "taken all aback," and hastened to assure her that
nothing approaching so astonishing an event had ever come within the
range of my experience. I hated to suggest it to her, but I have a lurking
suspicion that the catastrophe had some not too distant connection with
the "brewis." By the way, all right-minded Newfoundlanders and
Labradormen call it "bruse."
Also by the way, it is incorrect to speak of Newfoundland. It is
Newfoundland. Neither do you go up north if you know what you are
about. You go "down North"; and your friend is not bound for Labrador.
She is going to "the Labrador," or, to be more of a purist still, "the
Larbadore." Having put you right on these rudiments--oh! I forgot
another: "Fish" is always codfish. Other finny sea-dwellers may have to
be designated by their special names, but the unpretentious cod is "t'
fish"; and the salutation of friends is not, "How is your wife?" or, "How
is your health?" But, "How's t' fish, B'y?" I like it. It is friendly and
different--a kind of password to the country.
I am glad that I am not coming here as a mere traveller. The land looks
so reserved that, like people of the same type, you are sure it is well
worth knowing. So when, perhaps, I have been able to discover a little
of its "subliminal self," the tables will be turned, and you will be eager
to make its acquaintance. Then it will be my chance to offer you sage
and unaccepted advice as to your inability to cope with the climate and
its entourage. I too shall be able to prophesy unheeded a shattered
constitution and undermined nerves. To be sure, old Jacques Cartier
had such a poor opinion of the coast that he remarked it ought to have
been the land God gave to Cain. But J.C. has gone to his long rest.
After the length of this letter I judge that you envy him that repose, so I
release you with my love.

St. Antoine Orphanage at last Address for one year July 6
I have at last arrived at the back of beyond. We should have steamed
right past the entrance of our harbour if the navigation had been in my
hands. You make straight for a great headland jutting out into the
Atlantic, when the ship suddenly takes a sharp turn round an abrupt
corner, and before you know it, you are advancing into the most perfect
of landlocked harbours. A great cliff rises on the left,--Quirpon Point
they call it,--and clinging to its base like an overgrown limpet is a tiny
cottage, with its inevitable fish stage. Farther along are more houses;
then a white church with a pointed spire, and a bright-green building
near by, while across the path is a very pretty square green school. Next
are the Mission buildings in a group. Beyond them come more small
houses--"Little Labrador" I learned later that this group is called,
because the people living there have almost all come over from the
other side of the Straits of Belle Isle.
The ship's ladder was dropped as we came to anchor opposite the small
Mission wharf. The water is too shallow to allow a large steamer to go
into it, but the hospital boat, the Northern Light, with her draft of only
eight feet, can easily make a landing there. We scrambled over the side
and secured a seat in the mail boat. Before we knew it four hearty
sailors were sweeping us along towards the little dock. Here, absolutely
wretched and forlorn, painfully conscious of crumpled and disordered
garments, I turned to face the formidable