l6 AN ESKIMO VILLAGE 



is no poet : " Fine place for seals," said he, as he 

 waved his stumpy pipe towards the view. 



As for myself, I was entranced with the beauty of 

 the scene : the sloping hillside, the gentle curve of 

 the bay, the waves lapping and foaming on the 

 beach, the snow-capped mountains of the mainland 

 in the distance, and the sunshine on the blue water. 

 It was a lovely scene. You hardly think, perhaps, 

 of loveliness in Labrador, but there it was, for God, 

 the great Artist, can make beauty of mere rocks and 

 water, ice and sky and sunshine. 



But there was more than beauty in the scene ; 

 there was something that seemed strange. The hill- 

 side was strewn with mounds, as though some army 

 had made an old encampment there. 



Right down to the pebbly beach the mounds 

 seemed to straggle square heaps of turf much of 

 a size and scattered here and there. I made to go 

 towards them, but John would have none of it. 

 " Iglovinit," he said ; " old ruined houses, those," 

 and set his course towards the sea. He would not 

 go among the heaps ; he seemed half-frightened ; 

 they were eerie, uncanny. He did not like the place. 

 " Come and see the beach," he said, "where the 

 skin canoes are launched and where we bring the 

 seals " ; and would have led me away. But I went 

 wandering among the heaps, in spite of John ; " old 

 ruined houses," were they .^ then I wanted to see 

 them. They seemed to be square mounds of turf, 

 all overgrown with coarse grass and weeds. Some 

 had the shape of huts ; there was a hollow in the 

 middle where the floor had been, but the snows and 



