Down North and Up Along 
reach out into the water. With its seaweed- 
painted rocks, its purple shining sands, its 
bared weirs, the coast is much more pictur- 
esque, though less impressive, at low tide. 
Cannon Field is a place to dream in. Ro- 
mance and history have woven their bright 
fabrics before its very eyes. A remnant of 
those Indians who fill our histories in that 
confusing chapter known as the French and 
Indian Wars have their tents to the right as 
one faces the village, at the end of a little 
green lane that borders on Cannon Field. 
They are not there for scalps this bright sum- 
mer day, but for bits of the white man's magic 
silver, which they hope to get in exchange for 
the baskets and moccasins they have woven 
and worked upon through the long winter. 
There is a pappoose in one of the tents 
which the "American " ladies, with a unanim- 
ity in humour which one hopes is not national, 
all inquire the price of. 
Digby houses are as ugly as two-story 
wooden cottages, with narrow facades and 
steep roofs, must be, and they also possess 
the inartistic virtues of cleanliness and new 
paint. Few Digby houses go to ruin for lack 
