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| Inconsistent hyphenation and unusual spelling in the |
| original document have been preserved. |
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| The illustration captions, listed only at the front of the |
| original text, have been added to the illustrations for |
| the benefit of the reader. |
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| One obvious typographical error was corrected in this |
| text, but not the dialect. For details, please see |
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LE PETIT NORD
Or
Annals of a Labrador Harbour
by
ANNE GRENFELL and KATIE SPALDING
[Illustration: AN AWFUL NIGHT FOR A SINNER]
[Illustration]
Boston and New York
Houghton Mifflin Company
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1920
Copyright, 1920, by Houghton Mifflin Company
All Rights Reserved
FOREWORD
A friend from the Hub of the Universe, in a somewhat supercilious
manner, not long ago informed one of our local friends that his own
home was hundreds of miles to the southward. "'Deed, sir, how does you
manage to live so far off?" with a scarcely perceptible twinkle of one
eye, was the answer.
If home is the spot on earth where one spends the larger part of one's
prime, and where one's family comes into being, then for over a
quarter of a century "Le Petit Nord" of this book has been my home.
With the authors I share for it and its people the love which alone
keeps us here. Necessity has compelled me to perform, however
imperfectly, functions usually distributed amongst many and varied
professions, and the resultant intimacy has become unusual. As,
therefore, I read the amusing experiences herein narrated, I feel
that the "other half," who know us not, will love us better even if we
are not exactly as they. That is not our fault. They should not live
"so far off."
The incidents told are all actual, but the name of every single person
and place has been changed to afford any hypersensitive among the
actors the protection which pseudonymity confers. We here who have
been permitted a glimpse of these pages feel that we really owe the
authors another debt beyond the love for the people to which they have
testified by the more substantial offering of long and voluntary
personal service.
WILFRED T. GRENFELL, M.D.
_Labrador, 1919_
ILLUSTRATIONS
AN AWFUL NIGHT FOR A SINNER _Frontispiece_
SAD SEASICK SOULS STREWN AROUND 20
THE HERRING OF HIGH ESTATE 29
"HAVE YOU A PLUG OF BACCY, SKIPPER?" 40
RHODA'S RANDY 42
TOPSY'S AMBITION IS TO BECOME LIKE A FAT PIG 53
TOPSY WAS CREEPING FROM BED TO BED WITH THE CARVING-KNIFE 54
THE PROPHET OF DOOM 59
ANANIAS HAS BROKEN YET ANOTHER WINDOW 61
NOT FAT, BUT FINE AND HEARTY 68
DELILAH BAWLING 70
MRS. UNCLE LIFE FOUND THE LEADER OF THE TEAM IN HER BED 92
"TEACHER, I HAVE A PAIN" 95
THE YOHO 100
THEY ATE THE ENTIRE BOOT 108
HE HAD TAKEN THE STRANGER IN 117
HE FROZE HIS TOE IN BED 127
A LONG WAY ON THE HEAVENWARD ROAD 131
THE SEVENTH SON 140
ITS ACTION WAS PROMPT AND POWERFUL 141
IT WAS HIS LAST BULLET 153
A PUFFIN GHETTO 180
THE BEAR BIT HIS LEG OFF 189
P.S. 199
_From drawings by Dr. Grenfell_
LE PETIT NORD
OR
ANNALS OF A LABRADOR HARBOUR
_Off the Narrows, St. John's_
_June 10_
DEAR JOAN
The Far North calls and I am on my way:--
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail.
There gloom the dark broad seas.
* * * * *
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks.
Why write as if I had taken a lifelong vow of separation from the
British Isles and all things civilized, when after all it is only one
short year out of my allotted span of life that I have promised to
Mission work? Your steamer letter, with its Machiavellian arguments
for returning immediately and directly from St. John's, was duly
received. Of my unfitness for the work there is no possible doubt, no
shadow of doubt whatever, and therein you and I are at one. But you
will do me the justice to admit that I put very forcibly before those
in charge of the Mission the delusion under which they were labouring;
the responsibility now lies with them, and I "go to prove my soul."
What awaits me I know not, but except when the mighty billows rocked
me, not soothingly with gentle motion, but harshly and immoderately. I
have never wavered in my decision; and even at such times it was to
the bottom of Father Neptune that I aspired to travel rather than to
the shores of "Merrie England."
The voyage so far has been uneventful, and we are now swaying
luxuriously at anchor in a dense fog. This I believe is the usual
welcome accorded to travellers to the island of Newfoundland. There is
no chart for icebergs, and "growlers" are formidable opponents to
encounter at any time. Therefore it behoves us to possess our souls in
patience, and only to indulge at intervals in the right to grumble
which is by virtue of tradition ours. We have already been here a day
and a half, and we know not how much longer it will be before the
curtain rises and the first act of the drama can begin.
These boats are far from large and none too comfortable. We have taken
ten days to come from Liverpool. Think of that, you who disdain to
cross the water in anything but an ocean greyhound! What hardships we
poor missionaries endure! Incidentally I want to tell you that my
fellow passengers arch their eyebrows and look politely amused when I
tell them to what place I am bound. I ventured to ask my room-mate if
she had ever been on Le Petit Nord. I wish you could have seen her
face. I might as well have asked if she had ever been exiled to
Siberia! I therefore judge it prudent not to thirst too lustily for
information, lest I be supplied with more than I desire or can
assimilate at this stage. I shall write you again when I board the
coastal steamer, which I am credibly informed makes the journey to St.
Antoine once every fortnight during the summer months. Till then, _au
revoir_.
_Run-by-Guess, June 15_
I landed on the wharf at St. John's to be met with the cheering
information that the steamer had left for the north two days before.
This necessitated a delay of twelve days at least. Will all the babies
at the Orphanage be dead before I arrive on the scene of action? Shall
I take the next boat back and be in England before the coastal steamer
comes south to claim me? Conflicting emotions disturb my troubled
soul, but "on and always on!"
The island boasts a railroad of which the rural inhabitants are
inordinately proud. Just prior to my arrival a daily service had been
inaugurated. Formerly the passenger trains ran only three times a
week. There are no Sunday trains. As I had so much time to spare, I
decided that I could not do better than spend some of it in going
across the island and thus see the Southern part of the country,
catching my boat at Come-by-Chance Junction on the return journey.
Truth compels me to add that I find myself a sadder and wiser woman. I
left St. John's one evening at six o'clock, being due to arrive at our
destination at eight o'clock the following night. There is no
unpleasant "hustle" on this railway, and you may wait leisurely and
humbly for a solid hour while your very simple meal is prepared. If
you do not happen to be hungry, this is only a delightful interlude in
the incessant rush of modern life, but if perchance Nature has endowed
you with a moderate appetite, that one hour seems incurably long.
All went well the first night, or at least my fellow passengers showed
no signs of there being anything unusual, so like Brer Rabbit, I lay
low and said nothing. At noon the following day a slightly bigger and
more prolonged jolt caused the curious among us to look from the
window. The engine, tender, and luggage van were derailed. As the
speed of the trains never exceeds twenty-five miles an hour, such
little _contretemps_ which occur from time to time do not ruffle the
serenity of those concerned. Resigning myself to a delay of a few
hours, I determined to alight and explore the country. But alas! I had
no mosquito veiling, and to stand for a moment outside without this
protection was to risk disfigurement for life. So I humbly yielded to
adverse circumstances and returned to try and read, the previous
bumping having made this out of the question. But the interior was by
this time a veritable Gehenna, and no ventilation could be obtained,
as the Company had not thought it necessary to provide their windows
with screens. For twenty-five hours we remained in durance vile, until
at last the relief train lumbered to our rescue and conveyed us to
Run-by-Guess, our destination.
_Northward Bound. On board_
_June 25_
If you could have been present during the return journey from
Run-by-Guess your worst prophecies would have seemed to you justified.
The railroad is of the genus known as narrow-gauge; the roadbed was
not constructed on the principles laid down by the Romans. In a
country where the bones of Mother Earth protrude so insistently, it is
beating the devil round the stump to mend the bed with fir branches
tucked even ever so solicitously under the ties. That, nevertheless,
was an attempt at "safety first" which I saw.
Towards morning a furious rain and wind storm broke over us. Before
many minutes I noticed that my berth was becoming both cold and damp.
Looking up I made out in the dim dawn a small but persistent stream
pouring down upon me. I had had the upper berth pushed up so as to
get the air! Again the train came to an unscheduled stop. By this time
assorted heads were emerging from behind the curtains, and from each
came forcible protests against the weather. There was nothing to be
done but to sit with my feet tucked up and my arms around my knees,
occupying thus the smallest possible space for one of my proportions,
and wait developments. Ten minutes later, after much shouting outside
my window, a ladder was planted against the car, and two trainmen in
yellow oilskins climbed to the roof. I noted with satisfaction that
they carried hammers, tacks, and strips of tin. A series of resounding
blows and the almost immediate cessation of the descending floods told
how effective their methods had proved. Directly afterwards the
startled squeak of the engine whistle, as if some one had trodden on
its toe, warned us that we were off once more.
We landed (you will note that the nautical phraseology of the country
has already gripped me) in the same storm at Come-by-Chance Junction.
But the next morning broke bright and shining, as if rain and wind
were inhabitants of another planet. It is quite obvious that this land
is a lineal descendant of Albion's Isle. Now I am aboard the coastal
steamer and we are nosing our way gingerly through the packed floe
ice, as we steam slowly north for Cape St. John. Yes, I know it is
Midsummer's Day, but as the captain tersely put it, "the slob is a bit
late."
The storm of two days ago blowing in from the broad Atlantic drove the
great field of leftover pans before it, and packed them tight against
the cliffs. If we had not had that sudden change in the weather's mind
yesterday, we should not be even as far along as we now find
ourselves.
You can form no idea of one's sensations as the steamer pushes her way
through an ice jam. For miles around, as far as the eye can reach,
the sea is covered with huge, glistening blocks. Sometimes the
deep-blue water shows between, and sometimes they are so tightly
massed together that they look like a hummocky white field. How any
one can get a steamer along through it is a never-ending source of
amazement, and my admiration for the captain is unstinted. I stand on
the bridge by the hour, and watch him and listen to the reports of the
man on the cross-trees as to the prospects of "leads" of open water
ahead. Every few minutes we back astern, and then butt the ice. If one
stays below decks the noise of the grinding on the ship's side is so
persistent and so menacing that I prefer the deck in spite of its
barrels and crates and boxes and smells. Here at least one would not
feel like a rat in a hole if a long, gleaming, icy, giant finger
should rip the ship's side open down the length of her. As we grate
and scrape painfully along I look back and see that the ice-pan
channel we leave behind is lined with scarlet. It is the paint off our
hull. The spectacle is all too suggestive for one who has always
regarded the most attractive aspect of the sea to be viewed from the
landwash.
Of course the scenery is beautiful--almost too trite to write--but the
beauty is lonesome and terrifying, and my city-bred soul longs for
some good, homely, human "blot on the landscape." There are no trees
on the cliffs now. I understand, however, that Nature is not
responsible for this oversight. The people are sorely in need of
firewood, and not being far-seeing enough to realize what a menace it
is to the country to denude it so unscientifically, they have razed
every treelet. Nature has done her best to rectify their mistake, and
the rocky hills are covered with jolly bright mosses and lichens.
Naturally, there are compensations for even this kind of voyage, for
no swell can make itself felt through the heavy ice pack. We steam
along for miles on a keel so even that only the throb of our engines,
and the inevitable "ship-py" odour, remind one that the North Atlantic
rolls beneath the staunch little steamer.
The "staunch little steamer's" whistle has just made a noise out of
all proportion to its size. It reminded me of an English sparrow's
blatant personality. We have turned into a "tickle," and around the
bend ahead of us are a handful of tiny whitewashed cottages clinging
to the sides of the rocky shore.
I cannot get used to the quaint language of the people, and from the
helpless way in which they stare at me, my tongue must be equally
unintelligible. A delightful _camaraderie_ exists; every one knows
every one else, or they all act as if they did. As we come to anchor
in the little ports, the men from the shore lash their punts fast to
the bottom of the ship's ladder, and clamber with gazelle-like agility
over our side. If you happen to be leaning curiously over the rail
near by, they jerk their heads and remark, "Good morning," or, "Good
evening," according as it is before or after midday. This is an
afternoon-less country. The day is divided into morning, evening, and
night. Their caps seem to have been born on their heads and to
continue to grow there like their hair, or like the clothing of the
children of Israel, which fitted them just as well when they came out
of the wilderness as when they went in. But no incivility is meant.
You may dissect the meaning and grammar of that paragraph alone. You
have had long practice in such puzzles.
_Seventy-five miles later_
We are out of the ice field and steaming past Cape St. John. This was
the dividing line between the English and French in the settlement of
their troubles in 1635. North of it is called the French or Treaty
Shore, or as the French themselves so much more quaintly named it, "Le
Petit Nord." It is at the north end of Le Petit Nord that St. Antoine
is located.
The very character of the country and vegetation has changed. It is as
if the great, forbidding fortress of St. John's Cape cut off the
milder influences of southern Newfoundland, and left the northern
peninsula a prey to ice and winds and fog. The people, too, have felt
the influence of this discrimination of Nature. There is a line of
demarcation between those who have been able to enjoy the benefits of
the southern island, and those who have had to cope with the recurrent
problems of the northland. I cannot help thinking of the change this
shore must have been from their beloved and smiling Brittany to those
first eager Frenchmen. The names on the map reveal their pathetic
attempts to stifle their _nostalgie_ by christening the coves and
harbours with the familiar titles of their homeland.
I fear in my former letter I made some rather disparaging remarks
about certain ocean liners, but I want to take them all back. Life is
a series of comparisons and in retrospect the steamer on which I
crossed seems a veritable floating palace. I offer it my humble
apologies. Of one thing only I am certain--I shall never, never have
the courage to face the return journey.
The time for the steamer to make the journey from Come-by-Chance to
St. Antoine is from four to five days, but when there is much ice
these days have been known to stretch to a month. The distance in
mileage is under three hundred, but because of the many harbours into
which the boat has to put to land supplies, it is really a much
greater distance. There are thirty-three ports of call between St.
John's and St. Antoine, most of which are tiny fishing settlements
consisting of a few wooden houses at the water's edge. This coast
possesses scores of the most wonderful natural harbours, which are not
only extremely picturesque, but which alone make the dangerous shore
possible for navigation. As the steamer puts in at Bear Cove, Poverty
Cove, Deadman's Cove, and Seldom-Come-By (this last from the fact
that, although boats pass, they seldom anchor there), out shoot the
little rowboats to fetch their freight. It is certainly a wonderfully
fascinating coast, beautifully green and wooded in the south, and
becoming bleaker and barer the farther north one travels. But the bare
ruggedness and naked strength of the north have perhaps the deeper
appeal. To those who have to sail its waters and wrest a living from
the harvest of the sea, this must be a cruel shore, with its dangers
from rocks and icebergs and fog, and insufficient lighting and
charting.
Apart from the glory of the scenery the journey leaves much to be
desired, and the weather, being exceedingly stormy since we left the
ice field behind, has added greatly to our trials. The accommodations
on the boat are strictly limited, and it is crowded with fishermen
going north to the Labrador, and with patients for the Mission
Hospital. As they come on in shoals at each harbour the refrain
persistently runs through my head, "Will there be beds for all who
come?" But the answer, alas, does not fit the poem. Far from there
being enough and to spare, I know of two at least of my fellow
passengers who took their rest in the hand basins when not otherwise
wanted. Tables as beds were a luxury which only the fortunate could
secure. Almost the entire space on deck is filled with cargo of every
description, from building lumber to live-stock. While the passengers
number nearly three hundred, there are seating accommodations on four
tiny wooden benches without backs, for a dozen, if packed like
sardines. Barrels of flour, kerosene, or molasses provide the rest.
Although somewhat hard for a succession of days, these latter are
saved from the deadly ill of monotony by the fact that as they are
discharged and fresh taken on, such vantage-points have to be secured
anew from day to day; and one learns to regard with equanimity if not
with thankfulness what the gods please to send.
There are many sad, seasick souls strewn around. If cleanliness be
next to godliness, then there is little hope of this steamer making
the Kingdom of Heaven. One habit of the men is disgusting; they
expectorate freely over everything but the ocean. The cold outside is
so intense as to be scarcely endurable, while the closeness of the
atmosphere within is less so. These are a few of the minor
discomforts of travel to a mission station; the rest can be better
imagined than described. If, to the Moslem, to be slain in battle
signifies an immediate entrance into the pleasures of Paradise, what
should be the reward of those who suffer the vagaries of this northern
ocean, and endure to the end?
[Illustration: SAD SEASICK SOULS STREWN AROUND]
My trunk is lost. In the excitement of carpentering incidental to the
cloudburst, the crew of the train omitted to drop it off at
Come-by-Chance. I am informed that it has returned across the country
to St. John's. If I had not already been travelling for a fortnight,
or if Heaven had endowed me with fewer inches so that my clothing were
not so exclusively my own, the problem of the interim till the next
boat would be simpler.
I have had my first, and I may add my last, experience of "brewis," an
indeterminate concoction much in favour as an article of diet on this
coast. The dish consists of hard bread (ship's biscuit) and codfish
boiled together in a copious basis of what I took to be sea-water. "On
the surface of the waters" float partially disintegrated chunks of fat
salt pork. I am not finicking. I could face any one of these articles
of diet alone; but in combination, boiled, and served up lukewarm in a
soup plate for breakfast, in the hot cabin of a violently rolling
little steamer, they take more than my slender stock of philosophy to
cope with. Yet they save the delicacy for the Holy Sabbath. The only
justification of this policy that I can see is that, being a day of
rest, their stomachs can turn undivided and dogged attention to the
process of digestion.
Did I say "day of rest"? The phrase is utterly inadequate. These
people are the strictest of Sabbatarians. The Puritan fathers, whom we
now look back upon with a shivery thankfulness that our lot did not
fall among them, would, and perhaps do, regard them as kindred
spirits. But they are earnest Christians, with a truly uncomplaining
selflessness of life.
By some twist of my brain that reminds me of a story told me the other
day which brings an old legend very prettily to this country. It is
said that when Joseph of Arimathea was hounded from place to place by
the Jews, he fled to England taking the Grail with him. The spot where
he settled he called Avalon. When Lord Baltimore, a devout Catholic,
was given a huge tract of land in the south of this little island, he
christened it Avalon in commemoration of Joseph of Arimathea's also
distant journey. To the disgrace of the Protestants, the Catholic
exiles arrived in the "land of promise" only to discover that the
spirit of persecution was rampant in this then far-off colony.
Evidently the people of the country think that every man bound for the
Mission is a doctor, and every woman a nurse. If my Puritan conscience
had not blocked the way, I could have made a considerable sum
prescribing for the ailments of my fellow passengers. One little thin
woman on board has just confided to me, "Why, miss, I found myself in
my stomach three times last week"--and looked up for advice. As for
me, I was "taken all aback," and hastened to assure her that nothing
approaching so astonishing an event had ever come within the range of
my experience. I hated to suggest it to her, but I have a lurking
suspicion that the catastrophe had some not too distant connection
with the "brewis." By the way, all right-minded Newfoundlanders and
Labradormen call it "bruse."
Also by the way, it is incorrect to speak of _New_foundland. It is
Newfound_land_. Neither do you go up north if you know what you are
about. You go "down North"; and your friend is not bound for Labrador.
She is going to "the Labrador," or, to be more of a purist still, "the
Larbadore." Having put you right on these rudiments--oh! I forgot
another: "Fish" is always codfish. Other finny sea-dwellers may have
to be designated by their special names, but the unpretentious cod is
"t' fish"; and the salutation of friends is not, "How is your wife?"
or, "How is your health?" But, "How's t' fish, B'y?" I like it. It is
friendly and different--a kind of password to the country.
I am glad that I am not coming here as a mere traveller. The land
looks so reserved that, like people of the same type, you are sure it
is well worth knowing. So when, perhaps, I have been able to discover
a little of its "subliminal self," the tables will be turned, and you
will be eager to make its acquaintance. Then it will be my chance to
offer you sage and unaccepted advice as to your inability to cope with
the climate and its _entourage_. I too shall be able to prophesy
unheeded a shattered constitution and undermined nerves. To be sure,
old Jacques Cartier had such a poor opinion of the coast that he
remarked it ought to have been the land God gave to Cain. But J.C. has
gone to his long rest. After the length of this letter I judge that
you envy him that repose, so I release you with my love.
_St. Antoine Orphanage at last
Address for one year
July 6_
I have at last arrived at the back of beyond. We should have steamed
right past the entrance of our harbour if the navigation had been in
my hands. You make straight for a great headland jutting out into the
Atlantic, when the ship suddenly takes a sharp turn round an abrupt
corner, and before you know it, you are advancing into the most
perfect of landlocked harbours. A great cliff rises on the
left,--Quirpon Point they call it,--and clinging to its base like an
overgrown limpet is a tiny cottage, with its inevitable fish stage.
Farther along are more houses; then a white church with a pointed
spire, and a bright-green building near by, while across the path is a
very pretty square green school. Next are the Mission buildings in a
group. Beyond them come more small houses--"Little Labrador" I
learned later that this group is called, because the people living
there have almost all come over from the other side of the Straits of
Belle Isle.
The ship's ladder was dropped as we came to anchor opposite the small
Mission wharf. The water is too shallow to allow a large steamer to go
into it, but the hospital boat, the Northern Light, with her draft of
only eight feet, can easily make a landing there. We scrambled over
the side and secured a seat in the mail boat. Before we knew it four
hearty sailors were sweeping us along towards the little dock. Here,
absolutely wretched and forlorn, painfully conscious of crumpled and
disordered garments, I turned to face the formidable row of Mission
staff drawn up in solemn array to greet us. As the doctor-in-charge
stepped forward and with a bland smile hoped I had had a "comfortable
journey," and bade me welcome to St. Antoine, with a prodigious effort
I contorted my features into something resembling a grin, and limply
shook his outstretched hand. To-morrow I mean to make enquiries about
retiring pensions for Mission workers!
No one had much sympathy with me over the loss of my trunk. They
laughed and said I would be fortunate if it appeared by the end of the
summer. You had better send me a box by freight with some clothing in
it; I otherwise shall have to live in bed, or seek admission to
hospital as a "chronic."
How perfectly dear of you to have a letter awaiting me at the
Orphanage. Regardless of manners I fell to and devoured it, while all
the "little oysters stood and waited in a row." Like the walrus, with
a few becoming words I introduced myself as their future guardian, but
never a word said they. As, led by a diminutive maid, I passed from
their gaze I heard an awe-struck whisper, "IT'S gone upstairs!"
[Illustration: THE HERRING OF HIGH ESTATE]
In answer to my questions the little maid informed me that the last
mistress had left by the boat I had just missed, and that since then
the children had been in her charge, with such help and supervision as
the various members of the Mission staff could give. I therefore felt
it was "up to me" to make a start, and I delicately enquired when the
next meal was due. An exhaustive exploration of the larder revealed
two herrings, one undoubtedly of very high estate. As the children
looked fairly plump, I concluded that they had only been on such
meagre diet since the departure of the last "mistress." The barrenness
of the larder suggested a fruitful topic of conversation with which to
win the confidence of these staring, open-mouthed children, and I
therefore tenderly asked what they would most like to eat, supposing
IT were there. One and all affirmed that "swile" meat was a
delicacy such as their souls loved--and repeated questions could
elucidate no further. Subsequently, on making enquiries of one of the
Mission staff, I thought I detected a look which led me to suppose
that I had not yet acquired the correct pronunciation of the word. We
dined off the herring of lowly origin, and consigned the other to the
garbage pail. Nerve as well as skill, I can assure you, is required to
divide one herring into thirty-six equal parts. There is no occasion
for alarm. I have not the slightest intention of starving these
infants. To-morrow I go on a foraging expedition to the Mission
commissariat department (there must be one somewhere), and then the
fat years shall succeed the lean ones.
To-night I am too tired to do more, and there is a quite absurd
longing to see some one's face again. The coming year looks very long
and very dreary, and although I know I shall grow to love these
children, yet, oh, I wish they did not stare so when one has to blink
so hard to keep the tears from falling.
_July 7_
Morning! And the children may stare all they like. I no longer need to
repress youthful emotions. All the same it is a trifle disconcerting.
I had chosen, as I thought, a very impressive portion of Scripture for
Prayers, and the children were as quiet as mice. But they never let
their eyes wander from me for a single moment, until I began to feel I
ought at least to have a smut on the tip of my nose.
The alluring advertisement of Newfoundland, as "the coolest country on
the Atlantic seaboard in the summer," is all too painfully true. It is
very, very cold at present, and the sun, if sun there be, is safely
ensconced behind an impenetrable bank of fog. If this is summer
weather, what will the winter be!
I started to write this to you in the morning, but the day has been
one long series of interruptions. The work is all new to me and not
exactly what I expected, but the spice of variety is not lacking. I
find it very hard to understand these children and it is evident from
their faces that they fail to comprehend my meaning. Yet I have a
lurking suspicion that when it is an order to be obeyed, their desire
to understand is not overwhelming. The children are supposed to do the
work of the Home under my superintendency, the girls undertaking the
housework and the boys the outside "chores." Apparently from all I
hear my predecessor was a strict disciplinarian, an economical
manager, an expert needlewoman, and everything I should be and am not.
The sewing simply appalls me! I confess that stitching for three dozen
children of all sizes had not entered into my calculations as one of
the duties of a "missionary"! Yet of course I realize they must be
clad as well as taught. What a pity that the climate will not allow of
a simple loin cloth and a string of beads. And how infinitely more
becoming. Then, too, how much easier would be the food problem were
we dusky Papuans dwelling in the far-off isles of the sea. This
country produces nothing but fish, and we have to plan our food
supplies for a year in advance. How much corn-meal mush will David eat
in twelve months? And if David eats so much in twelve months, how much
will Noah, two months younger, eat in the same period of time? If one
herring satisfies thirty-six, how many dozen will a herring and a half
feed? Picture me with a cold bandage round my head seeking to emulate
Hoover.
A little mite has just come to the door to inform me that her dress
has "gone abroad." Seeing my mystified look, she enlightened me by
holding up a tattered garment which had all too evidently "gone
abroad" almost beyond recall. Throwing the food problem to the winds I
set myself with a businesslike air to sew together the ragged threads.
A second knock brought me the cheerful tidings that the kitchen fire
had languished from lack of sustenance. Now I had previously in my
most impressive tones commanded one of the elder boys to attend to
this matter, and he had promptly departed, as I thought, to "cleave
the splits." Searching for him I found this industrious youth lying on
his back complacently contemplating the heavens. To my remonstrance he
somewhat indignantly remarked that he was only "taking a spell." A
really magnificent and grandiloquent appeal to the boy's sense of
honour and a homily on the dignity of labour were abruptly terminated
by shrill cries resounding from the house. Rushing in, I was informed
that Noah was "bawling" (which fact was perfectly evident), having
jammed his fingers in trying to "hist" the window. In this country
children never cry; they always "bawl."
I foresee that the life of a Superintendent of an Orphan Asylum is not
a simple one, and that I shall be in no danger of being "carried to
the skies" on a "flowery bed of ease." Certain I am that there will
only be opportunity to write to you at "scattered times"; so for the
present, fare thee well.
_Sunday, August 4_
You see before you, or you would if my very obvious instead of merely
my astral body were in your presence, a changed and sobered being. I
have made the acquaintance of the Labrador fly, and he has made mine.
The affection is all on his side. Mosquito, black fly, sand fly--they
are all alike cannibals. You have probably heard the old story about
the difference between the Labrador and the New Jersey mosquito? The
Labrador species can be readily distinguished by the black patch
between his eyes about the size of a man's hand. Of the lot I prefer
the mosquito. He at least is open about his evil intentions. The black
fly darts at you quietly, settles down on an un-get-at-able spot, and
sucks your blood. If I did not find my appetite so unimpaired, I
should fancy this morning I was suffering from an acute attack of
mumps.
Mumps is at the moment in our midst, and as is generally the case has
fallen on the poorest of the community. In this instance it is a widow
by the name of Kinsey, who has six children, and lives in a miserable
hovel. More of her anon. Her twelve-year-old boy comes to the Home
daily to get milk for the wretched baby, whom we had heard was down
with the disease. When he came this morning I told him to stay
outdoors while we fetched the milk, because I knew how sketchy are the
precautions of his ilk against carrying infection. "No fear, miss," he
assured me. "The baby was terrible bad last night, but he's all clear
this morning."
But to return to the Kinsey parent. She had eight children. The
Newfoundlanders are a prolific race, and life is consequently doubly
hard on the women. Her husband died last fall, leaving her without a
sou, and no roof over her head. The Mission gave her a sort of shack,
and took two of her kiddies into the Home. The place was too crowded
at the time to take any more. The doctor 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 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.
When I look about me and see this poverty, the ignorance born of lack
of opportunity, the suffering, the dirt, and degradation which are in
so large a measure no fault of these poor folk, I am overwhelmed at
the wealth of opportunities. Here at least every talent one has to
offer counts for double what it would at home.
Thousands of fishermen come from the south each spring to take part in
the summer's fishery. The Labrador "liveyeres," who remain on the
coast all the year round, often have only little one-roomed huts made
of wood and covered with sods. In the winter the northern people move
up the bays and go "furring." Both the Indians and Eskimos are
diminishing in numbers, and the former at the present time do not
amount to more than three or four thousand persons--and of these the
Montagnais tribe make up more than half. The Moravian missionaries
have toiled untiringly amongst the Eskimos, and assuredly not for any
earthly reward. They go out as young men and practically spend their
whole life on the coast, their wives being selected and sent out to
them from home!
The work of this Mission is among the white settlers. In the Home we
have only one pure Eskimo, a few half-breeds (Indians and Eskimo), and
the remainder are of English descent. Almost all are from Labrador.
I often fancy that I must surely have slept the sleep of Rip Van
Winkle. When he woke he found that the world had marched ahead a
hundred years. With me the process is reversed. I am almost inclined
to yield a grudging agreement to the transmigrationalists, and believe
that I am re-living one of my former existences. For the part of the
country in which I have awakened is a generation or so behind the
world in which we live. There is no education worthy of the name, in
many places no schools at all, and in others half-educated teachers
eking out a miserable existence on a mere pittance. This is chiefly
due to the antediluvian custom of dividing the Government educational
grant on a denominational basis. A large proportion of the people can
neither read nor write. There are no roads, no means of communication,
no doctors or hospitals (save the Mission ones), no opportunities for
improvement, no industrial work, practically no domestic animals, and
on Labrador, taxation without representation! There is only one
hospital provided by the Government for the whole of this island, and
that one is at St. John's, which is inaccessible to these northern
people for the greater part of the year. No provision whatever is made
by the Government for hospitals for the Labrador. Again the only ones
are those maintained by this Mission. Lack of education, lack of
opportunity, and abundance of overwhelming poverty make up the lot of
the majority of people in this north part of the country. Little
wonder from their point of view, that one youth, returning to this
land after seeing others, declared that the man he desired above all
others to shoot was John Cabot, the discoverer of Newfoundland.
_August 15_
You complain that I have told you almost nothing about these children,
and you want to know what they are like. And I wish you to know, so
that you will stop sending dolls to Mary who is sixteen, and cakes of
scented soap to David who hates above all else to be washed. I find
these children very difficult in some ways; many of them are mentally
deficient, but it appears that no provision is made by the Government
for dealing with such cases, and so there is nothing to do but take
them in or let them starve. Some are very wild and none have the
slightest idea of obedience when they first arrive.
[Illustration: TOPSY'S AMBITION IS TO BECOME LIKE A FAT PIG]
One girl I have christened "Topsy," and I only wish you could see her
when she is in one of her tantrums, which she has at frequent
intervals. With her flashing black eyes, straight, jet-black hair,
square, squat shoulders, she looks the very embodiment of the Evil
One. She is twelve, but shows neither ability nor desire to learn.
Her habits are disgusting, and unless closely watched she will be
found filling her pockets with the contents of the garbage pail--and
this in spite of the fact that we are no longer dining off one
herring. She says that her ambition in life is to become like a fat
pig! Last night, when the children were safely tucked in bed and I
had sat down to write to you, piercing shrieks were heard resounding
through the stillness of the house. A tour of investigation revealed
Topsy creeping from bed to bed in the darkness, pretending to cut the
throats of the girls with a large carving-knife which she had stolen
for this purpose. To-day Topsy is going around with her hands tied
behind her back as a punishment, and in the hope that without the use
of her hands we may have one day of peace at least. Poor Topsy,
kindness and severity alike seem unavailing. She steals and lies with
the greatest readiness, and one wonders what life holds in store for
her.
[Illustration: TOPSY WAS CREEPING FROM BED TO BED WITH THE
CARVING-KNIFE]
We have just admitted three children, so we now number more than the
three dozen. One little mite of five was found last winter in a
Labrador hut, deserted, half-starved, and nearly frozen to death. She
was kept by a kindly neighbour until the ice conditions allowed of her
being brought here. The other two, brother and sister, were found, the
girl clothed in a sack, her one and only garment, and the boy in bed,
minus even that covering. This is the type of child who comes to us.
The doctor in charge has just paid me a visit. He says there is an
epidemic of smallpox in the island, and he wants all the children to
be vaccinated. The number of cases of smallpox this year in this
"insignificant little island" is greater _pro rata_ than in any other
country of the world. So two o'clock this afternoon is the time set
apart for the massacre of the innocents.
The laugh is against me! Two of our boys fell ill with a mysterious
sickness, and tenderly and carefully were they nursed by me and fed
with delicate portions from the king's table. I later learned with
much chagrin that "chewing tobacco" (strictly forbidden) was the cause
of this sudden onset. My sense of humour alone saved the situation for
them!
_The Children's Home
August 19_