Dec. 28, 1901.J 
"FOREST t AND ® STREAMf 
to cross our bows. Before our engines can be reversed, 
her bowsprit strikes our quarter and breaks off, and her 
liguehead and cutwater come crashing in. In a moment 
she has ripped us wide open for half our length. The 
rent is well above the waterline, fortunately; but the 
passengers cannot know this. Everybody is out on deck, 
some only half clad, and others scarcely clad at all. 
"Are we sinking?" somebody cries; and then he adds: 
•'O Lord, what is this?" 
He has stepped into something which is flowing over 
the decks. Just then Wrigley, the second mate, comes 
running by, carrying a lantern; and the moment his feet 
touch the substance they fly up and he falls flat on his 
back, sprawling and helpless. 
"Drat it!" he cries — and that is a considerable maledic- 
tion for so mild a man — "it's molasses!" 
Whereat everybody laughs. Wrigley has saved the 
situation. Then the captain's big voice makes itself 
heard booming orders. The Petrel's engines turn the 
ship about, and we pass the schooner on our way back 
to the wharf in Quebec. 
"You greasy, moU-pated dancing-jack!" the captain 
roars, as we pass the bewildered Frenchman. 
Then the crew of the schooner turn on the reserves of 
language which the captain credits them with storing in 
hollow legs, and scream after us until we are out of 
range. 
"Are we sinking, captain?" somebody shouts. 
"Not a bit of it!" he answers. "We've just lost a few 
yards of sheathing and will have to go back for repairs." 
And Arizona sleeps through it all. When she looks 
out of the cabin window about seven o'clock she an- 
nounces that we are still at Quebec. 
"That remark," I answer, "illustrates the blessings of 
an easy conscience which allows of perfect sleep." 
"What on earth do you mean?" 
"We've been to sea and had a collision, and ought by 
rights to be lying at the bottom." 
"Do you know," she says with a comfortable yawn, 
"I rather fancied 1 felt a kind of a — bump." 
After breakfast we get a cab and set out to see some- 
thing of the quaint town and of such as dwell therein. 
Chiefly we delight in the sleek, shaven, cassocked priests, 
and — oh, memories of youth! — the soldiers; the dear, 
familiar Tommies, as straight and trim and chesty as the 
Tommies of long ago. As a splendid ofticer passes us 
with clanking sword and jingling spurs, Arizona says, 
glancing at his feet reflectively, "Gracious! — he might 
.so easily stick himself!" 
"He wouldn't care much," I answer. "Godlike crea- 
tures like that are stuck on themselves the year round, 
and bear it — somehow." 
We get back to the ship in time for dinner. A gang 
of ship-carpenters has been busily at work on the hull 
from early in the day; and by three o'clock in the after- 
noon the repairs are completed and the ship once more 
leaves the wharf. 
As we steam outward, the river gradually widens, the 
north shore becoming a fainter and fainter line of blue. 
The south shore is dotted with constantly recurring clus- 
ters of white cottages with a big church in the center. 
They tell us that in such tiny communities the first man 
in importance is Monsieur le Cure, the second Monsieur 
le Docteur and the third Monsieur le Notaire. Farms 
run stripwise to the river — neat and prosperous looking. 
In the upper river we saw many "square-heads" — a cur- 
ious barge-like craft with a single mast stepped well for- 
ward and carrying two huge square sails, capable only 
of running before the wind. Down here the square- 
heads have disappeared. We see steamers, schooners, 
stone-hookers, and now and again a full-rigged ship. 
Two days out from Quebec and the dim, blue line to 
the north has faded into nothingness. We skirt close to 
the south bank, stopping at every little settlement, the 
people putting out in boats to meet us, with freight and 
steerage passengers to deliver and take off^. The banks 
are towering bluffs of granite, sprinkled with spruce. 
Whenever a gorge comes in the mountains, a littl-e plateau 
about level with the water is left; and here is a cluster 
of dwellings with a tiny fishing fleet dancing in the fore- 
scene. When the houses number only a half dozen or so, 
there will be no church. The banks are so huge that 
ihougli we are a furlong off, we seem scarcely to move at 
all. When evening sets in, the herring play, flashing 
about the bows, and great white porpoises lift in the dis- 
tance. Everywhere, from Quebec down, we have seen lit- 
tle evidences of an apparently undying, race-hated sus- 
picion and contempt on the side of the English, and sus- 
picion and heaven-knows-what beside on the pa'-t of the 
French. The people along the coast live entirely by fish- 
ing, the catch being mostly cod. Sometimes they raise 
a pig or two, though not often- — ^and cows are rare. Now 
and again we see a little garden with cabbages, potatoes 
and mus'.ard growing. The men are hardy-looking, lean, 
strong fellows— often handsome. They are enormously 
e.Kcitable, swinging their arms like flails and fairly scream- 
ing when they talk, with eyes hot as coals of fire. 
The fishing boats that put off to us are great, unwieldy 
things of about the size of an ordinary life-boat, propelled 
Ijy a couple of giant sweeps, the forward man sitting on 
a lli\va; t and pulling, the next man standing and pushing, 
and a third standing upright on the decking by the helm. 
Usually they have a couple of sprit sails as well. Many 
of them come over the long and arduous course for some 
trifling errand — to deliver a letter or to take off a box 
or a package. Always they have cod to sell— a dozen 
big ones for fifty cents. The captain stands by the wheel- 
house shouting a strange jargon of English and patois, 
which they seem to understand readily. 
A curious man this captain, the steward who loves him 
tells us — a man who will neither drink nor smoke, a 
bachelor nearing the middle time of life, cool, capable, 
sleepless, patient, but a devil to fight when once he be- 
gins — a dangerous man when roused. A big, raw-boned 
man, Scotch through and through, whose father served 
for forty odd years as a piper in a Highland regiment. 
His talk is always interesting — quiet, plain talk that shows 
a well-balanced and reflective mind — a reading man in a 
small, slow way, who keeps a lifelong grip upon what he 
reads and knows how to use it in argument. A humble- 
proud man whom it is a joy to meet — who definiteli' 
knows his trade and loves it. He has quite forsaken the 
dining-saloon since we left Quebec, living in and about 
the wheel house, and sleeping not at all, so far as may 
be discovered. He has had it out at last with the passen- 
ger who beguiled poor Gordon — a plain, flat talk as un- 
compromising as the Decalogue — not rude or boisterous, 
nor lacking anything in respect, but sufficient. Gordon 
is sober now and looking a little sheep-faced when he 
passes us; and the passenger says the captain is all that 
it befits- a man to be. 
These poor fisherfolk, we are told, have their times of 
terror and misery when cod is scarce and starvation faces 
them; with winters sometimes beyond belief, the tem- 
perature lying below zero for months on end, and fuel 
grown poor and scant. 
At sunset of the second day out from Quebec, we cast 
anchor off Pointe Seches to deliver 120 barrels of flour. 
Just as the ship swings round on her cable, we see the 
fishing fleet coming in, beating against a strong off- 
shore breeze. Before the fishermen will take their freight 
they are going to have their supper, it seems; and they 
pay no sort of heed to the angry appeals of our whistle. 
It is almost eight o'clock before the first boat puts off 
from the shore to where we lie rolling heavily from side 
to side. With a strong wind blowing and a good bit of 
sea up, it is slow work getting rid of these 120 barrels. 
In the half light it is very interesting to watch the boats 
at work. A boat-hook shoves the loaded boat clear of the 
ship, and then the sprit thrusts the sail up like a suddenly 
uplifted arm, Very cleverly do these fisherfolk handle 
their craft, and we pay tribute to the handiness of the 
spritsail rig. As night sets in, the waves become phos- 
phorescent and the sky is streaked with the beautiful 
Northern Light. We do not get away until four in the 
morning. 
Judging by some of the freight we have delivered so 
far, the coast must be in a fairly prosperous condition: 
Sewing machines, cases of whiskey and gin, a buggy, a 
horse-rake, lemons, bananas, candies. But the catch is 
good this year. 
The captain grows talkative when there is freight to 
be handled. That is his time for relaxation. He waxes 
indignant over the Treaty of Utrecht by which France 
obtained the exclusive right to catch and dry fish on the 
western and northern sides of Newfoundland, "It is the 
finest fishing ground of the island," he says, "that is 
barred to Englishmen by a shortsighted arrangement en- 
tered into over 180 years ago. And the treaty gives 
France only the right to catch and dry fish; and she 
doesn't do either. She catches lobsters — and lobsters 
ain't fish. Now, when an Englishman, acting strictly 
within the letter of the treaty, ventures to set out his 
lobster-pots, the meanest kind of a thing happens to him: 
the Frenchies complain to the nearest British man-of- 
war, and the man-of-war must step in and confiscate the 
poor beggar's outfit. France compels England to do her 
dirty police work. It's an infernal outrage that is justi- 
fied by nothing under heaven. France is doing nothing 
with the -fisheries, and next to nothing with the lobster 
catch. She has a few lobster canneries that'd make a cat 
laugh. It's a dog-in-the-manger piece of business that 
should be ended." 
We have seen an occasional seal, watching us warily 
and keeping at safe distance; and great numbers of sea- 
coots, cormorants and gannets. 
Oh, the wonder and the beauty of Perce Rock! It 
lies here in the sea, looking like a piece of unpolished 
green onyx, and so huge that the ship seems like a tiny 
toy beside it. Looking at it through a glass, we can see 
quite plainly its densely-packed population of birds — 
herring-gull, gannet, albatross, cormorant, and heaven- 
knows-what other species beside — millions of them, and 
making a united crying that would be deafening if we 
were nearer. The ship, lying at anchor, is seemingly 
trying to roll her rails under; but. we are all such good 
sailors by now that we discuss our dinner in the saloon 
in calm indifference to shifting angles and tumbling per- 
spectives. When we go on deck nowadays, I wrap Ari- 
zona from head to foot in two heavy blankets, for the 
cold is keen and searching. One cannot read much, for 
the wind is so high that there is no controlling the flut- 
tering leaves of a book. And, after all, there is so 
much to see to delight the senses, to talk about, that 
books seem superfluous. It is enough to be well clothed 
in woolens and overcoat and go stamping about the shifty 
deck with a pipe in one's mouth. And then there is the 
pleasure of thinking how hot it must be in New York! 
That reflection alone is sufficient to make shivering an 
unalloyed delight. 
When we creep into the harbor of Gaspe that night 
and go ashore for a taste of terra firma, we experience a 
curious sensation of suffocation. There isn't enough 
air for us. It is too sheltered and quiet. We long for 
the open sea and its wide freedom. We have grown too 
big for the land. An hour of it leaves us prostrated with 
bodily fatigue. 
They tell us, when we are in the open once more, a 
weird tale of one of the fishing villages — Grande Mou, I 
think — of a cluster of human beings left for years to grow 
up in complete isolation, without guides or teachers, with- 
out laws or principles, without marriage or family ties- 
becoming at last lower than the beasts of the field, until 
at last the news is told the good Bishop many miles away, 
and he sends a priest to rescue them. It is diflicult for 
people living sheltered lives with all the unnoticed bless- 
ings of civilization about them, to realize the horror of 
such things. 
We hear a genuine habitant chant at last; a queer wail- 
ing tune in a minor key, elusive in form and most 
pathetic. As we lie in our bunks on a Sunday morning, 
only half awake, it floats up to us from the steerage, re- 
minding us in its sorrowful little graces and turns of the 
songs the Irish women of our childhood used to sing. 
"Do you hear it, Arizona?". I say, softly, when the 
singer pauses. 
"Hush!" she whispers, as one afraid of disturbing the 
mating-song of some shy bird, "he may sing again." 
And he does. It is a song of many verses, and all the 
singer's heart seems wrapped in it. He makes an end of 
it at last, simply by singing no longer, for there is no 
finite close, but only a tremulous suspended note that 
is like an unanswered question. It is said to be a char- 
acteristic of all habitant songs, that whether sad or gay. 
they are innocent and childlike, with never a suggestion 
of license. Wilx,iam Edward Aitken. 
A Man o' the Woods. 
Chapter I. 
It was Sunday, and Sunday, although a day of rest, was 
'r^If ^1 ^^^^ ^'^^'y ^'S'^'y esteemed by the men of the 
Little Ihunder logging camp. These men thrived and 
grew fat on hard labor, whereas a day of enforced idle- 
ness had a most depressing effect upon their spirits and 
became a period of profound gloom. Their mental re- 
sources were so very limited that conversation, for the 
most part, was confined to a few stereotyped remarks, a 
few oft-repeated jokes or tales of adventure, to which no 
one, save the narrator himself, paid any particular atten- 
tion. They lounged about their bunks, smoking and 
grumbling Idee so many school boys held after hours in 
durance vile. 
The time of the year was in late November. A bleak 
chilling wnid howled dismally through the forest trees 
outside and moaned in low, complaining tones about 
the walls of the cabin. Only a few of the men had cared 
to venture forth in quest of game, and these, with the 
exception of Long Tom Bartlett and Bill White had 
returned at midday empty handed. It was growing dusk 
when the two latter put in an appearance, bearing the 
carcass of a fat buck between them. Their arrival created 
a slight diversion, and was soon followed by an an- 
nouncement from the cook that supper was ready 
Scarcely were the men seated at the table when the 
cabin door swung slowly open, admitting a gust of wind 
that caused the lanterns to flicker and smoke, and also 
called forth a chorus of profane vituperations from the 
lumbermen. 
«r^"S^™i ^" ^'^7 shouted Long Tom Bartlett. 
Only do one or t'other all-fired quick. This ain't no 
barn. 
At this forceful injunction a bulky form entered the 
room hesitatingly, closed the door and stood leaning 
against it facing the cantankerous assemblage with one 
hand on the latch, ready at a moment's notice to beat a 
hasty retreat if necessity compelled. The newcomer met 
the many cunous, scowling glances without flinching. 
Me was a strange-Iookmg figure, short and squat, but of 
wide girth and great breadth across the shoulders. He 
was clad m buckskin breeches, a gray flannel shirt, open 
at the throat and exposing his deep, hairy chest, and on 
his feet he wore Indian moccasins. The only covering 
on his head was a great mass of coarse black hair. A 
beard and a long, heavy moustache of the same color 
concealed the greater part of his features. 
"The hairy man from Borneo," one of the men mut- 
tered m the ear of his neighbor. 
"Waal, stranger, what can we do fer you?" Captain 
Jenkins inquired in hospitable tones. 
"I'm lookin' fer work," the stranger replied in a low 
voice that seemed to fill every nook and cranny of the 
long room with its deep vibrations. 
"So ? What can you do ?" 
"Anything with these," and he spread out two huge 
hands in a simple but expressive gesture. 
"Waal, don't stand thar like a Injun," one of the men 
called out. "Step up in the light an' let's have a look 
at jou._ They ain't nothin' t' be 'fraid on." 
"I ain't afraid," the man answered in the same deep 
voice, advancing further into the room. "I ain't never 
afraid o' nuthin' or nobody." 
As he stood there in the'^full glare of the lanterns it was 
very obvious that his statement required no more exact 
demonstration, for he looked the embodiment of physical 
strength. He glanced from one to the other of the men 
in turn, and as his clear, gray eye.s met theirs the certain 
conviction was borne in upon them that here was a man it 
would be wise to treat with due respect. 
"^Better set down an' have some grub afore it's all eat 
up," Captain Jenkins suggested, at the same time mov- 
ing along to make room for the stranger beside him- 
self on the rude bench that took the place of table chairs. 
"What might be yer name?" 
"Jim." 
"Jim what?" 
"Jest Jim — plain Jim." 
'.'Jim's only a handle. Ain't you got no regular name 
what a feller gits married or buried under? What was 
yer dad's name?" , 
"Never seen him to speak to, so I dunno. Sometimes 
they used to call me Squatty Jim. Quinguish had a differ- 
ent name fer me." 
"Who the devil's Quinguish?" 
"A Injun I used to hunt an' trap with." 
Here the Captain, happening to glance around, per- 
ceived "that the food was rapidly disappearing from the 
table, so he immediately fell to with an avidity that made 
up for lost time, nor did he again venture a remark so 
long as there remained anything of an edible nature in 
sight. His gastronomic efforts duly consummated. Captain 
Jenkins heaved a complacent sigh, lit his pipe and turning 
himself about on the bench, leaned back with his elbows 
on the table and calmly surveyed the man called Jim. 
"How old might you be?" he at length inquired. 
"Dunno," the other replied. "Somewhars 'round 'bout 
twenty." 
"You don't seem to know much consarnin' yerself." 
"They ain't nuthin' wuth knowin', as I can see." 
"Waal," the Captain observed after a brief pause, 
"dunno as it makes. imich difrunce to any of us, only you 
must 'a' lived longer'n twenty years to find that out. I 
can always use a good man, an' ef you're as strong as you 
look, I reckon I can use j'ou, Squatty Jim." 
Squatty Jim's face lit up with pleasure. 
"I'm dern glad you can," said he. "I'll earn my money." 
"That goes without sayin' in this camp," the Captain 
rejoined. "These are the boys. Boys, this is Squatty 
Jim, who> looks as ef he wouldn't stand a lot o' monkey- 
shines." 
In this manner did this strange being cast in his lot 
with the loggers, and Captain jfenkins never had cause 
to regret his choice. Squatty Jim proved an invaluable 
worker, equal to any two ordinary men. There seemed 
scarceljr any limit to his strength and endurance, and 
although reticent and uncommunicative at all times, still 
he became very popular with the entire crew. To this 
day they tell of his wonderful feats of strength and dar- 
ing in that part of the Avorld, for in time Squatty Jim 
became famotis among the men of the woods. Some of 
the tales are hard to believe, but you must keep your 
