Le Petit Nord | Page 8

my predecessor
was a strict disciplinarian, an economical manager, an expert
needlewoman, and everything I should be and am not. The sewing
simply appalls me! I confess that stitching for three dozen children of
all sizes had not entered into my calculations as one of the duties of a
"missionary"! Yet of course I realize they must be clad as well as
taught. What a pity that the climate will not allow of a simple loin cloth
and a string of beads. And how infinitely more becoming. Then, too,
how much easier would be the food problem were we dusky Papuans

dwelling in the far-off isles of the sea. This country produces nothing
but fish, and we have to plan our food supplies for a year in advance.
How much corn-meal mush will David eat in twelve months? And if
David eats so much in twelve months, how much will Noah, two
months younger, eat in the same period of time? If one herring satisfies
thirty-six, how many dozen will a herring and a half feed? Picture me
with a cold bandage round my head seeking to emulate Hoover.
A little mite has just come to the door to inform me that her dress has
"gone abroad." Seeing my mystified look, she enlightened me by
holding up a tattered garment which had all too evidently "gone
abroad" almost beyond recall. Throwing the food problem to the winds
I set myself with a businesslike air to sew together the ragged threads.
A second knock brought me the cheerful tidings that the kitchen fire
had languished from lack of sustenance. Now I had previously in my
most impressive tones commanded one of the elder boys to attend to
this matter, and he had promptly departed, as I thought, to "cleave the
splits." Searching for him I found this industrious youth lying on his
back complacently contemplating the heavens. To my remonstrance he
somewhat indignantly remarked that he was only "taking a spell." A
really magnificent and grandiloquent appeal to the boy's sense of
honour and a homily on the dignity of labour were abruptly terminated
by shrill cries resounding from the house. Rushing in, I was informed
that Noah was "bawling" (which fact was perfectly evident), having
jammed his fingers in trying to "hist" the window. In this country
children never cry; they always "bawl."
I foresee that the life of a Superintendent of an Orphan Asylum is not a
simple one, and that I shall be in no danger of being "carried to the
skies" on a "flowery bed of ease." Certain I am that there will only be
opportunity to write to you at "scattered times"; so for the present, fare
thee well.

Sunday, August 4
You see before you, or you would if my very obvious instead of merely

my astral body were in your presence, a changed and sobered being. I
have made the acquaintance of the Labrador fly, and he has made mine.
The affection is all on his side. Mosquito, black fly, sand fly--they are
all alike cannibals. You have probably heard the old story about the
difference between the Labrador and the New Jersey mosquito? The
Labrador species can be readily distinguished by the black patch
between his eyes about the size of a man's hand. Of the lot I prefer the
mosquito. He at least is open about his evil intentions. The black fly
darts at you quietly, settles down on an un-get-at-able spot, and sucks
your blood. If I did not find my appetite so unimpaired, I should fancy
this morning I was suffering from an acute attack of mumps.
Mumps is at the moment in our midst, and as is generally the case has
fallen on the poorest of the community. In this instance it is a widow by
the name of Kinsey, who has six children, and lives in a miserable
hovel. More of her anon. Her twelve-year-old boy comes to the Home
daily to get milk for the wretched baby, whom we had heard was down
with the disease. When he came this morning I told him to stay
outdoors while we fetched the milk, because I knew how sketchy are
the precautions of his ilk against carrying infection. "No fear, miss," he
assured me. "The baby was terrible bad last night, but he's all clear this
morning."
But to return to the Kinsey parent. She had eight children. The
Newfoundlanders are a prolific race, and life is consequently doubly
hard on the women. Her husband died last fall, leaving her without a
sou, and no roof over her head. The Mission gave her a sort of shack,
and took two of her kiddies into the Home. The place was too crowded
at the time to take any more. The doctor