Down North and Up Along 
they see no town, only the scarred rock that 
holds back the mighty tides, the long grass- 
grown terrace where a town will one day lie, — 
a town of aliens, — the hill behind grown thick 
with firs ; these are all that greet their eager 
eyes, and their two little ships sail on into the 
lovely land-locked Basin. 
You know them well. They are the French, 
who scarcely three hundred years ago ventured 
across the broad Atlantic in those little ships 
of theirs. Through Digby Gut they came one 
fair spring morning, the first white men whose 
eyes had rested on those shores. In they 
came, the advance guard of civilisation to a 
new piece of the world. 
The little ships sail up the Basin and out of 
sight behind a wooded island. 
So much for the dream on Cannon Field. 
You rub your eyes and look about you. The 
Basin is dotted over with boats ; the town of 
Digby lies on the slopes behind you. British 
guns point down the Basin in the direction the 
two little ships have gone. But they are safe. 
They sailed behind that island almost three 
hundred years ago. The British guns cannot 
touch them nor can aught destroy them : they 
