146 FISH HARVESTING. 
lodge-fires, and wreaths of white smoke slowly 
ascending through the still air; the square sub- 
stantial pickets shutting in the trade-fort, its roof 
and chimneys just peeping above, backed by the 
sombre green of the pine-trees, altogether pre- 
sented a picture novel and pretty in all its details. 
A few minutes and we rounded the jutting 
head-land, keeping close along the rocky shore of 
the island, gliding past snug bays and cozy little 
land-locked harbours, the homes and haunts 
of countless wildfowl; soon we leave the shore, 
and stand away to sea. The breeze is fresher 
here, and a ripple, that would be nothing in a 
boat, makes the flat-bottomed canoe unpleasantly 
lively. Save a wetting from the spray, and oc- 
casional surge of water over the gunwale, all 
goes pleasantly. The far-away land is barely dis- 
tinguishable in the grey haze. No canoes are 
to be seen in the dark-blue water; the only sign 
of living things—a flock of sea-gulls waging war 
on a shoal of fish, the distant spouting of a whale, 
and the glossy backs of the black fish as they roll 
lazily through the ripple. The line at the bow 
is uncoiled, a heavy stone enclosed in a net 
attached as a sinker, a large hook made of bone 
and hardwood, baited with a piece of the octopus, 
(a species of cuttle-fish), is made fast to the long 
