168 OVER ON THE ISLAND

trees bend protectingly over them. Down the road an Indian plods. His dog runs beside him, and, in the distance, the train rumbles along.

”You’d think they’d fix up this place, " remarked a tourist thoughtfully.

“Have you seen Brudenell Island?”

6‘ NO. 1’

“Well, there’s a wasted opportunity if ever there was one. That place could be simply beautiful. ”

“Still, things are picking up, you know. Look at the paved roads. When I came down here from Ontario ten years ago, there wasn’t a single mile of country paving. I suppose if I come back in another ten years there won’t be a single mile of dirt road. ”

“Well, I shouldn’t worry about that just yet. Let’s look around. "

“He’s from Upper Canada, ” whispered Jean.

“Shh! Ontario, you mean. This isn’t the eigh- teenth century. ”

“Perhaps not, but half the people here still call it Upper Canada. ”

We wandered around together.

“I wonder if the old pioneers who are buried here would rest easy if they knew that Scots settlers have invaded their sanctuary and rest here with them. Their graves are all mixed up. Only the dates on the few decipherable stones tell whether it is a French- speaking or Gaelic-speaking pioneer who lies beneath.”

“There must have been an old French settlement here, ” the Upper Canadian hazarded shrewdly.

“Yes, the parish of St. Louis du Nord-est, but the French were sent away, in 1758, and then the Scots came and settled here. That monument commemos rates the work of the man who brought them here. ”