In passing I would record the fact that in Port Medway lies the first stone wall or fence, such as is so common with us, that has come within the compass of this walk.
From here I was to ferry to Voglers Cove. My ferryman had the face of a poet with the blond, silky little beard that fits so well such a face, but the hands were those of a hard worker. A soft voice; pleasant, talkative and kindly, I was so sure that he must have at least one baby tucked away at home that I tried to give him a quarter to get the child a little present. But, alas! he had none.
The run across to Voglers Cove, which is possibly a matter of four miles, was made in a motor boat whose cranky engine balked, as is the habit of these descendants of the mule. It was interesting to see what patience and perseverance could do with such a loose-jointed affair.
On the outskirts of Voglers Cove I came on Jason Conrad and his ox cart, and as the background seemed propitious, the camera proceeded to its duty. Jason being of an inquiring turn of mind, hauled up to see what it was all about and, having learned, proceeded to give me his life history, which I unfortunately did not attempt to record until only a few fragments remained to be gathered up.
He had been to sea some sixty years and three times thought the good Lord had him, but each time managed to escape. His old woman has stomach trouble very bad, like heartburn right here (illustrating); doctors could do nothing for her, but he had some very fine old Jamaica rum which cured her. After that she had the trouble so frequently that the rum was soon exhausted, and he has not been able to get any more as good. Used to drink himself some in his earlier days. “You know how it is with sailors.” Like his namesake of long ago, he appears to have sown his share of dragons’ teeth. New York is a damn fine town. Halifax is a—well, it would hardly do for polite ears to hear what he thought of Halifax. I finally edged around my new found friend and left him standing in the middle of the road still telling of his adventures. He was one of the most willing talkers I have met in some time.
The way to Petite Riviere, which was possibly seven or eight miles, does not seem to have left any impression. It was probably a wood road, and much like other wood roads that had gone before.
PETITE RIVIERE AND DUBLIN SHORE.
The Sperry House down by the water at Petite Riviere is another of those pleasant homes for wayfarers. Both the master and mistress can find time to be agreeable, and are kindly people. The situation of the house is such that the roar of the breakers on the outer bar is always to be heard, and their whitening tops can readily be seen from the upper windows as they are dashed to pieces upon the breakwater. It is one of those hotels that believes in deeds rather than words. There is no sign on house or grounds to indicate its object in life, though the building is almost out of sight from the road and the stranger would never suspect its calling.
A fog held the region in thrall at the time of my arrival and the two hours of daylight that remained did not produce much beyond a ground-glass effect, a shadowy foreground with the distance as blank as the mind of an ox.