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 th