108 OVER ON THE ISLAND

first mate, were drowned off the coast of Newfoundo land. There is more straight history in those two cemeteries of Belfast than in any other Island district that I know.

Quite near the Polly cemetery lies the old French cemetery now completely desolate, with only a few slightly decipherable inscriptions on the few memorials left. It is a touching reminder of the people whose loyalty to France cast them adrift from their humble little homes. Here they lived quite peacefully and happily. The men had Island-grown tobacco to comfort them during the long winter evenings. The women had spruce gum—or, perhaps, tobacco, too. The Acadians were not lazy as many people have suggested. They merely disliked hard work. They left the Island with hopes of returning. Some years ago, in this old French district, a man in ploughing his field unearthed a number of old French bayonets. Relics of the past——now useless—but rusty with the blighted dreams and hopes of their former owners. It is a sad little cemetery with its little red sandstone slabs, compared with the more prosperous and impres- sive memorials of the Scottish pioneers who replaced these French settlers. I wonder if the old French peasants come back frequently and keep guard above their hidden possessions. I wonder what else still lies in hopeful expectancy below the hay fields of Mt. Buchanan—awaiting the ushering in of the old era anew.

So deep beneath some granite stone Here scatter’d up and down,

Old “parlez-vous” unseen, alone, Hid many a silver crown!