_College Campus,_
_Washington, Pennsylvania, January 25, 1905._
_CONTENTS_
I. The Doctor 11
II. A Round of Bleak Coasts 18
III. Ships in Peril 26
IV. Desperate Need 37
V. A Helping Hand 48
VI. Faith and Duty 55
VII. The Liveyere 67
VIII. With the Fleet 83
IX. On the French Shore 103
X. Some Outport Folk 110
XI. Winter Practice 132
XII. The Champion 146
_LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS_
"A Doctor ... the Prophet and Champion of a People" _Title_
"It is an Evil Coast" 20
"Bound North" 30
"A Turf Hut" 44
"Set Sail from Great Yarmouth Harbour for Labrador" 50
"Appeared with a Little Steam-launch, the Princess May" 55
"The Hospital Ship, Strathcona" 65
"The Labrador 'Liveyere'" 73
"At Indian Harbour" 86
"Set the Traps in the Open Sea" 93
"The Bully-boat Becomes a Home" 101
"The Whitewashed Cottages on the Hills" 111
"Toil" 122
"The Hospital at Battle Harbour" 133
"The Doctor on a Winter's Journey" 144
"A Crew Quite Capable of Taking You into It" 150
_Dr. Grenfell's Parish_
I
_THE DOCTOR_
Doctor Wilfred T. Grenfell is the young Englishman who, for the love
of God, practices medicine on the coasts of Newfoundland and Labrador.
Other men have been moved to heroic deeds by the same high motive, but
the professional round, I fancy, is quite out of the common; indeed,
it may be that in all the world there is not another of the sort. It
extends from Cape John of Newfoundland around Cape Norman and into the
Strait of Belle Isle, and from Ungava Bay and Cape Chidley of the
Labrador southward far into the Gulf of St. Lawrence--two thousand
miles of bitterly inhospitable shore: which a man in haste must sail
with his life in his hands. The folk are for the most part isolated
and desperately wretched--the shore fishermen of the remoter
Newfoundland coasts, the Labrador "liveyeres," the Indians of the
forbidding interior, the Esquimaux of the far north. It is to such as
these that the man gives devoted and heroic service--not for gain;
there is no gain to be got in those impoverished places: merely for
the love of God.
* * * * *
I once went ashore in a little harbour of the northeast coast of
Newfoundland. It was a place most unimportant--and it was just beyond
the doctor's round. The sea sullenly confronted it, hills overhung it,
and a scrawny wilderness flanked the hills; the ten white cottages of
the place gripped the dripping rocks as for dear life. And down the
path there came an old fisherman to meet the stranger.
"Good-even, zur," said he.
"Good-evening."
He waited for a long time. Then, "Be you a doctor, zur?" he asked.
"No, sir."
"Noa? Isn't you? Now, I was thinkin' maybe you might be. But you
isn't, you says?"
"Sorry--but, no; really, I'm not."
"Well, zur," he persisted, "I was thinkin' you might be, when I seed
you comin' ashore. They _is_ a doctor on this coast," he added, "but
he's sixty mile along shore. 'Tis a wonderful expense t' have un up.
This here harbour isn't able. An' you isn't a doctor, you says? Is you
sure, zur?"
There was unhappily no doubt about it.
"I was thinkin' you might be," he went on, wistfully, "when I seed you
comin' ashore. But perhaps you might know something about doctorin'?
Noa?"
"Nothing."
"I was thinkin', now, that you might. 'Tis my little girl that's sick.
Sure, none of us knows what's the matter with she. Woan't you come up
an' see she, zur? Perhaps you might do something--though you isn't--a
doctor."
The little girl was lying on the floor--on a ragged quilt, in a
corner. She was a fair child--a little maid of seven. Her eyes were
deep blue, wide, and fringed with long, heavy lashes. Her hair was
flaxen, abundant, all tangled and curly. Indeed, she was a winsome
little thing!
"I'm thinkin' she'll be dyin' soon," said the mother. "Sure, she's
wonderful swelled in the legs. We been waitin' for a doctor t' come,
an' we kind o' thought you was one."
"How long have you waited?"
"'Twas in April she was took. She've been lyin' there ever since. 'Tis
near August, now, I'm thinkin'."
"They was a doctor here two year ago," said the man. "He come by
chance," he added, "like you."
"Think they'll be one comin' soon?" the woman asked.
I took the little girl's hand. It was dry and hot. She did not
smile--nor was she afraid. Her fingers closed upon the hand she held.
She was a blue-eyed, winsome little maid; but pain had driven all the
sweet roguery out of her face.
"Does you think she'll die, zur?" asked the woman, anxiously.