Notwithstanding all, the folk are large and hardy—capable of withstanding cruel hardship and deprivation.
In summer-time the weather is blistering hot inland; and on the coast it is more often than not wet, foggy, blustering—bitter enough for the man from the south, who shivers as he goes about. Innumerable icebergs drift southward, scraping the coast as they go, and patches of snow lie in the hollows of the coast hills—midway between Battle Harbour and Cape Chidley there is a low headland called Snowy Point because the snow forever lies upon it. But warm, sunny days are to be counted upon in August—days when the sea is quiet, the sky deep blue, the rocks bathed in yellow sunlight, the air clear and bracing; at such times it is good to lie on the high heads and look away out to sea, dreaming the while. In winter, storm and intense cold make most of the coast uninhabitable; the “liveyeres” retire up the bays and rivers, bag and baggage, not only to escape the winds and bitter cold, but to be nearer the supply of game and fire-wood. They live in little “tilts”—log huts of one large square room, with “bunks” at each end for the women-folk, and a “cockloft” above for the men and lads. It is very cold; frost forms on the walls, icicles under the “bunks”; the thermometer frequently falls to fifty degrees below zero, which, as you may be sure, is exceedingly cold near the sea. Nor can a man do much heavy work in the woods, for the perspiration freezes under his clothing. Impoverished families have no stoves—merely an arrangement of flat stones, with an opening in the roof for the escape of the smoke, with which they are quite content if only they have enough flour to make hard bread for all.
It goes without saying that there is neither butcher, baker, nor candlestick-maker on the coast. Every man is his own bootmaker, tailor, and what not; there is not a trade or profession practiced anywhere. There is no resident doctor, save the mission doctors, one of whom is established at Battle Harbour, and with a dog-team makes a toilsome journey up the coast in the dead of winter, relieving whom he can. There is no public building, no municipal government, no road. There is no lawyer, no constable; and I very much doubt that there is a parson regularly stationed among the whites beyond Battle Harbour, with the exception of the Moravian missionaries. They are scarce enough, at any rate, for the folk in a certain practical way to feel the hardship of their absence. Dr. Grenfell tells of landing late one night in a lonely harbour where three “couples wanted marrying.” They had waited many years for the opportunity. It chanced that the doctor was entertaining a minister on the cruise; so one couple determined at once to return to the ship with him. “The minister,” says the doctor, “decided that pronouncing the banns might be dispensed with in this case. He went ahead with the ceremony, for the couple had three children already!”
The “liveyere” is of a sombrely religious turn of mind—his creed as harsh and gloomy as the land he lives in; he is superstitious as a savage as well, and an incorrigible fatalist, all of which is not hard to account for: he is forever in the midst of vast space and silence, face to face with dread and mysterious forces, and in conflict with wind and sea and the changing season, which are irresistible and indifferent.
Jared was young, lusty, light-hearted; but he lived in the fear and dread of hell. I had known that for two days.
“The flies, zur,” said he to the sportsman, whose hospitality I was enjoying, “was wonderful bad the day.”
We were twelve miles inland, fishing a small stream; and we were now in the “tilt,” at the end of the day, safe from the swarming, vicious black-flies.
“Yes,” the sportsman replied, emphatically. “I’ve suffered the tortures of the damned this day!”
Jared burst into a roar of laughter—as sudden and violent as a thunderclap.