_

It has been days since I wrote you, and they have slipped by so
stealthily I must have missed half they held.

Since coming aboard I have taken to rising promptly. It is a necessary
measure if I am to be able to rise at all. One morning I stuck my head
out just in time to see my favourite sweater, which I had counted on
for service on the homeward voyage, disappearing over the
rail--legitimately, so far as concerned the wearer. Last week, by the
merest fluke, I rescued my best boots from a similar fate. The doctor
explained lamely on each occasion that they got mixed with the
clothing sent for distribution to the poor. This may be a literal
statement of fact, but I doubt the manner of the mixing.

We celebrated to-day by running aground on the flats. You can "squeak"
over them if you happen to strike the channel. The difficulty is,
however, that the sandy bottom shifts. To-day it is, and to-morrow it
is not. I was eating one of those large, hearty breakfasts which the
combination of a dead flat calm and a sunshiny brisk air make such a
desideratum. I was, moreover, perched on the top of the wheel house,
and reflecting on the poor taste of the author of the Book of
Revelation when he said that in heaven "there shall be no more sea."
At this moment I came to with a lurch. "She's stuck!" yelled, or as he
himself would put it, "bawled," the Prophet. For once he was
undeniably right. Fortunately the tide was on the flood, and we
floated off a short while after.

In the afternoon we visited an Eskimo Moravian station. They--the
Eskimos, not the Moravians--are a jolly little people, and picturesque
as possible. Not that any aspersions on the Moravians are intended,
for I have the greatest respect for them. My shining leather coat made
a great hit. They fondled it and stroked it, and coo-ed at it as if
it were a new baby. All the women past their very first youth seemed
toothless. I wondered if it could be a characteristic of the
tribe--sort of Manx Eskimo. I asked the Prophet what was the cause of
the universal shortage, and was told that the Eskimo women all chew
the sealskin to soften it for making into boots. You can take this
statement for what it may be worth.

Speaking of which I have just finished reading a ludicrously furious
attack on the Mission in a St. John's paper, for its alleged
misrepresentations. It seems that last year the former superintendent
took down a boy from the Children's Home to give him a