30 FROM BLOMIDON TO SMOKY. 



the shore for many rods, finally reaching the sea 

 just at the foot of the fish flakes and in front 

 of the house. Eastward and northward, as far 

 as the eye could see, lay the open ocean. The 

 only distance not sky or sea was the broken shore 

 near Cape Dauphin and Point Aconi, which 

 limited the view towards the southeast and south. 

 Just below the fish flakes were several fisher- 

 men's huts, crowded together upon uncertain 

 foundations above high-tide mark. Boats, great 

 tubs for oil, more flakes thickly strewn with split 

 fish, masses of seaweed and fish heads, big frag- 

 ments of rock worn round by the waves, oars, 

 sails, ropes, nets, lobster pots, and nameless rel- 

 ics of storm and shore lay in wild confusion 

 at the foot of the bank. All the odors of Bil- 

 lingsgate rose to salute our trembling nostrils, 

 and stronger than all sights and smells came in 

 ceaseless iteration the singing and sobbing of 

 the great waves. 



Sandy McDonald gave us a hearty welcome, 

 and ushered us into a cosy parlor, from which 

 opened a tiny bedroom. Simple food, reading by 

 McDonald from a Gaelic Bible, a long breath of 

 ocean air, and the benediction of the stars fitted us 

 for early and profound sleep. It was not until 

 gray dawn that I awakened, and, throwing a 

 blanket over my shoulders, stole to the door and 

 looked out over the sea. The fishermen were 



