Down North and Up Along 
alas ! contained its whole stock of romance in 
its name. If it had ground-nuts, it did not 
show them to us, nor did it bring forth any 
Indians. 
Truro was as disappointing as Shubenacadie, 
for the maps placed it at the head of Cobe- 
quid Bay, the extreme eastern end of Minas 
Basin, and it was but natural that we should 
expect to see the waters of Fundy there once 
more. Not so. Truro is two miles from the 
bay, a bustling, manufacturing town of no at- 
tractions, but with a great deal of smoke and 
noise. 
A few miles away, however, is Maitland, near 
the mouth of the Shubenacadie River, — a 
famous spot, we were assured, for the highest 
of high tides, rips, and bores. This might be 
so, — we hoped it was, — but we did not go to 
see. We had pursued rips and bores to the 
limits of human endurance, and if they were 
at Maitland — well, we sincerely hoped they 
would stay there. 
Out of Truro we left the desolate waste of 
stunted firs and loose stones and went speed- 
ing along the shores of a river with bright red 
banks, where maples, oaks, and birches mingled 
