. David, aged five, considers himself quite a big boy, and a
leader of the others. His father was frozen to death in Eskimo Bay
some years ago whilst hunting food for his family. Although David is
always boasting of his strength and the superior wisdom of his years,
yet he is really very tiny for his age. He is a delightful little
optimist, who announces cheerfully after each failure to do right that
he is "going to be good all the time now," to which we add the mental
reservation, "until next time." He is the proud possessor of a Teddy
bear. This long-suffering animal was a source of great pleasure until
a short time ago when David started making a first-hand investigation
to find out where the "squeak" came from--an investigation which ended
disastrously for the bear, however it may have furthered the cause of
science.

Last month I went to Nameless Cove to fetch to the Home a little boy
of three, of whom I have already written you. Nameless Cove is about
twelve miles west of St. Antoine. I have never seen such a wretched
hovel--a one-roomed log hut, completely destitute of furniture. The
door was so low I had to bend almost double to enter. A rough shelf
did duty for a bed, upon which lay an old bedridden man, while at the
other end lay a sick woman with a child beside her, and crouched below
was an idiot daughter. Altogether nine persons lived in this hut,
eight adults and this one boy. Ananias is an illegitimate child, and
has lived with these grandparents since his mother lost her reason and
was removed to the asylum at St. John's. The child was almost
destitute of clothing, and covered with vermin. He has the face of a
seraph, and a voice that lisps out curses with the fluency of a
veteran trooper. Ananias is David's shadow; he follows him everywhere,
and echoes all his words as if they were gems of wisdom, far above
rubies. Indeed, when David has ceased speaking, one waits
involuntarily for Ananias to begin in his shrill treble tones. He is a
hopeless child to correct, for when you imagine you are scolding him
very severely, and you look for the tears of penitence to flow, he
puts up his little face with an angelic smile, and lisps, "Tiss me."

Drusilla, whose slight acquaintance you have already made, is three
and comes from Savage Cove. The father has gradually become blind and
the mother is crippled. Drusilla keeps us all on the alert, for we
never know what she will be doing next. On Sunday mornings she is