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 "χαιρετε" 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 't is
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 to have a fellow feeling with the chickens of Norway, poor dears!
August 9
I want to violently controvert your disparaging remarks about this "insignificant little island." Do you realize that this same "insignificant little island" is four times bigger than Scotland, and that it has under its dominion a large section of Labrador? If, as the local people say, "God made the world in five days, made Labrador on the sixth, and spent the seventh throwing stones at it," then a goodly portion of those stones landed by mischance in St. Antoine. Indeed, Le Petit Nord and Labrador are so much alike in climate, people, and conditions that this part of the island is often designated locally as Labrador (never has it been my lot to see a more desolate, bleak, and barren spot). The traveller who described Newfoundland as a country composed chiefly of ponds with a little land to divide them from the sea, at least cannot be impeached for unveracity. In this northern part even that little is rendered almost impenetrable in the summer-time by the thick under-brush, known as "tuckamore," and the formidable swarms of mosquitoes and black flies. All the inhabitants live on the coast, and the interior is only travelled over in the winter with komatik and dogs.
No, I am not living in the midst of Indians or Eskimos. Please be good enough to scatter this information broadcast, for each letter from England reveals the fear that I am in imminent danger of being scalped alive or buried in an igloo. There are a few scattered Eskimos on Le Petit Nord, but for the most part the inhabitants are whites and half-breeds. The Indians live almost entirely in the interior of Labrador and the Eskimos around the Moravian stations. I am living amongst the descendants of the fishermen of Dorset and Devon who came out about two hundred years ago and settled on this coast for the cod-fishery. Those who live in the south are comparatively well off, but many in the north are in great poverty and often on the verge of starvation.