INGONISH, BY LAND AND SEA. 49 



of a fair sunset glow. On the left, the long 

 beach and bar ended in a pier, with fish-houses 

 and boats, men smoking, cod drying on the flakes, 

 lobster pots piled up for the season, and collie 

 dogs watching life go by on the tide, or dream- 

 ing as they lay on the dry nets. Dead ahead, 

 a fisherman's boat was coming in close to the 

 pier, its oars splashing in the choppy sea where 

 inner and outer waters wrestled in the nar- 

 row pass. Our oars thumped louder, and we 

 shot through the swirl, and out past light- 

 house, pier, boats, rocks, and the residue of 

 land and life, towards where the sea, the sky, 

 and Smoky lived in a great dream together. 

 Surely this place was beautiful, and to-night, as 

 I sat in the bow alone, the flapping sail behind 

 me, the rise and fall, the heave, surge, and 

 wash of the sea lent a magic joy to the voyage 

 we were taking out to the Bill of Smoky. I 

 looked far ahead and strained my eyes to see 

 what was beyond; and then I thought, what 

 matters it to look, to strive to see an end, a goal, 

 when there is no end, no goal, to see ? This is 

 no mountain, with ridge after ridge to surmount, 

 and an ultimate peak to conquer, with all its 

 prizes of prostrate earth and nearer clouds to 

 look upon. This is only the sea with its monoto- 

 nous level, having in its endlessness no incen- 

 tive to action, no stimulus to struggle. Still I 



