Le Petit Nord | Page 9

then wrote to the orphanages at
the capital presenting the problem, and asking that they take a
consignment of children. The Church of England Orphanage, of which
denomination the mother is a member, was full; and the other one,
which has just had a gift of beautiful buildings and grounds, "regretted
they could not take any of the children, as their orphanage was
exclusively for their denomination." The mother did not respond to the
doctor's ironic suggestion that she should "turncoat" under the press of
circumstances.

They tell a story here about Kinsey, the late and unlamented. Last
spring a steamer heading north on Government business sighted a
fishing punt being rowed rapidly towards it, the occupant waving a flag.
The captain ordered, "Stop her," thinking that some acute emergency
had arisen on the land during the long winter. A burly old chap cased in
dirt clambered deliberately over the rail.
"Well, what's up?" asked the captain testily. "Can't you see you're
keeping the steamer?"
[Illustration: "HAVE YOU A PLUG OF BACCY, SKIPPER?"]
"Have you got a plug or so of baccy you could give me, skipper? I
hasn't had any for nigh a month, and it do be wonderful hard."
The captain's reply was unrepeatable, but for such short acquaintance it
was an accurate résumé of the character of the applicant. De mortuis nil
nisi bonum is all very well, but it depends on the mortuis; and that
man's wife and children had been short of food he had "smoked away."
I have the greatest admiration for the women of this coast. They work
like dogs from morning till nightfall, summer and winter, with "ne'er a
spell," as one of them told me quite cheerfully. The men are out on the
sea in boats, which at least is a life of variety, and in winter they can go
into the woods for firewood. The women hang forever over the stove or
the washtub, go into the stages to split the fish, or into the gardens to
grow "'taties." Yet oddly enough, there is less illiteracy among the
women than among the men.
[Illustration: RHODA'S RANDY]
Such a nice girl is here from Adlavik as maid in the hospital. Rhoda
Macpherson is her name. She told me the other day that one winter the
doctor of the station near her asked the men to clear a trail down a very
steep hill leading to the village, as the dense trees made the descent
dangerous for the dogs. Weeks went by and the men did nothing.
Finally three girls, with Rhoda as leader, took their axes every Sunday
afternoon and went out and worked clearing that road. In a month it

was done. The doctor now calls it "Rhoda's Randy."
Yesterday afternoon I was out with my camera. (Saturday you will note.
I have learned already that to be seen on Sundays in this Sabbatarian
spot, even walking about with that inconspicuous black box, is
anathema.) A crowd of children in a disjointed procession had collected
in front of the hospital, and the patients on the balconies were
delightedly craning their necks. A biting blast was blowing, but the
children, clad in white garments, looked oblivious to wind and weather.
It was a Sunday-School picnic. A dear old fisherman was with them,
evidently the leader.
"What's it all about?" I asked.
"We've come to serenade the sick, miss. 'Tis little enough pleasure 'em
has. Now, children, sing up"; and the "serenade" began. It was "Asleep
in Jesus," and the patients loved it! I got my picture, "sketched them
off," as the old fellow expressed it.
In the many weeks since I saw you--and it seems a lifetime--I have
forgotten to mention one important item of news. Every properly
appointed settlement along this coast has its cemetery. This place
boasts two. With your predilection for epitaphs you would be content.
The prevailing mode appears to be clasped hands under a bristling
crown; but all the same that sort of thing makes a more "cheerful"
graveyard than those gloomily beautiful monuments with their hopeless
"[Greek: chairete]" that you remember in the museum at Athens. There
is one here which reads:
Memory of John Hill who Died December 30th. 1889
Weep not, dear Parents, For your loss 'tis My etarnal gain May Christ
you all take up the Cross that we Should meat again.
The spelling may not always be according to Webster, but the
sentiments portray the love and hope of a God-fearing people unspoiled
by the roughening touch of civilization.

I must to bed. Stupidly enough, this climate gives me insomnia.
Probably it is the mixture of the cold and the long twilight (I can read at
9.30), and the ridiculous habit of growing light again at about three in
the morning. I am beginning