SILVER FOXES AND SEACOWS 231

miles from Borden as the car runs. It is thirty-two by rail. . I still have a hearty respect for the ingenuity of those contractors. The idea that the railway was built first and then squeezed on to the Island appears almost plausible.

We went to Pig’s Brook, not because it was beautiful, or historically important, but because we wanted to see it for quite another reason. A friend of ours had gone there before. He was not quite sure of the locality, so he stopped a girl and inquired:

“Is this Pig’s Brook?”

“ Pig’s Brook!” answered the girl, stung to the quick. “Only the ignorant people call it that!”

The car slunk on apologetically.

We approached, as we thought, more tactfully.

“What is the name of this district?”

“Ascension, ” replied a child politely.

”Has it always been called Ascension?”

”No,” she admitted softly. “Pig’s Brook!”

Pig’s Brook! Despite its name, it is anything except a brook. On each side of the road is a large puddle of water. This is Pig’s Brook. No wonder they changed the name. The pigs probably objected.

We came to Norway. I inquired from a bright young lad the way to the end of the Island.

“How far is it to the point?”

“What point?”

“North Point!”

“They call it the ‘Cape,’ not the ‘Point.

“Well, how far is it to the point?”

“The point? Oh, you mean the Cape. It’s about four miles.”

We pedalled on and came to Seacow Pond. Here bones and tusks of ivory are occasionally found—the

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