Le Petit Nord / or, Annals of a Labrador Harbour

by Anne Grenfell; Katie Spalding

In my various letters to you I have so often taken away the characters of our dogs that I must tell you of one, just to show that I have not altered in my devotion to our "true first friend." This dog's name was "Black," and he lived many years ago at Mistaken Cove. The tales of his beauty, his cleverness at tricks, and his endurance of difficulties are still told, but chiefly of his devotion to his master. After years of this companionship the beloved master died and was buried in the woods near his lonely little house. Black was inconsolable. He would eat nothing; he started up at every slightest noise hoping for the familiar whistle; he haunted the well-worn woodpath where they had had so many happy days together. Finally he discovered his master's grave and was found frantically tearing at the hard earth and heavy stones. Nor would he leave the spot. Food was brought him daily, but it went untouched. For one whole week he lay in the wind and weather in the hole he had dug on the grave. There the children found him on the eighth morning curled up and apparently asleep. His long quest and vigil were ended, for he had reached the happy hunting grounds. Who shall say that a beloved hand and voice did not welcome him home?

St. Antoine Children's Home (by courtesy)
February 28

Of one thing I am certain, we must have a new Home, for this house is not fit for habitation, and it is not nearly large enough. Even after my recent return from living in the tiny homes of the people which one would fancy to be far less comfortable, this is forcibly impressed upon me. We simply cannot go on refusing to take in children who need its shelter so badly. So please spread this broadcast among the friends in England. This Home has been enlarged once since it was built, and yet it is not nearly big enough for our present needs. We have no nursery, and I only wish you could see the tiny room which has to do duty for a sewing-room. It is certainly only called "room" by courtesy, for there is scarcely space to sit down, much less to use a needle without risk of injury to one's neighbour. The weekly mend alone, without the making of new things, means now between two and three hundred garments in addition to the boots, which the boys repair. As you can imagine, this is no light task and we are often driven almost distracted. I think the stockings are the worst, sometimes a hundred pairs to face at once! I fear we must once have been led into making some rather pointed remarks on this subject, for later, on going into the sewing-room, we found a slip of printed paper, cut from a magazine, and bearing the title of an article: "Don't Scold the Children when They Tear Their Stockings."

This building rocks like a ship at sea; the roof continually leaks, the windows are always "coming abroad," and the panes drop out at "scattered times," while even when shut, the wind whistles through as if to show his utter disdain of our inhospitable and paltry efforts to keep him outside. On stormy nights, in spite of closed windows, the rooms resemble huge snowdrifts. Seven maids with seven mops sweeping for half a year could never get it clear. The building heaves so much with the frost that the doors constantly refuse to work, because the floors have risen, and if they are planed, when the frost disappears, a yawning chasm confronts you. Our storeroom is so cold in winter that we put on Arctic furs to fetch in the food, and in summer it is flooded so that we swim from barrel to barrel as Alice floated in her pool of tears. But far above all these minor discomforts is the one overwhelming desire not to have to refuse "one of these little ones."

One's heart aches when one remembers all the money and effort and love expended on a single child at home, that he may lack nothing to be prepared in body and spirit to meet the vicissitudes of his coming life journey. But in this land are hundreds of children, our own blood and kin, who must face their crushing problems often with bodies stunted from insufficient nourishment in childhood, and minds unopened and undeveloped, not through lack of natural ability, but because opportunity has never come to them. As one looks ahead one sees clearly what a contribution these eager children could offer their "day" if only their cousins at home had "the eyes of their understanding purged to behold things invisible and unseen."

March 10

The seals are in! That to you doubtless does not seem the most engrossing item of news that could be communicated, but that merely proves what a long road you have to travel. Before the break of day every man capable of carrying a weapon is out on the ice to try and get his share of the spoils.

They carry every conceivable sort of gun, but the six-foot muzzle-loaders are the favourites. These ancient weapons have been handed down from father to son for generations, and locally go by the somewhat misleading soubriquet of the "little darlints."

The people call the seals "swiles." There is an old story about a foreigner who once asked, "How do you spell 'swile'?" The answer the fisherman gave him was, "We don't spell [carry] 'em. We mostly hauls 'em."

Sea-birds have also come in the "swatches" of open water between the pans. A gale of wind and sea has broken up the ice, and driven it out of St. Mien's Bay, which is just round the corner from us. Thousands of "turr" are there, and the men are reaping many a banquet. A man's wealth is now gauged by the number of birds which are strung around the eaves of his house. It is a safe spot, for it keeps the birds thoroughly frozen, and well out of reach, at this time of year, of the ever-present dog.