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