240 OVER ON THE ISLAND

Gordon, Selkirk, and La belle Marie roamed through its fertile fields and along its winding rivers. The fish Will 1011 leisurely where once an Island forest stood. Marine growth will fringe the sunken outline. And the Island will be a memory——in a million years or so . .

Down by the water we sat and worried.

A million years?

Surely not less. As if in answer to our question a large segment separated from the cliff and crashed with a reverberating smack on the lonely northern shore. Soft were the red fragments. Using a piece, we engraved on a rock our initials and the date. Will it be there—in a million years or so? The cliff answered with another spray of sandstone chips, and deep beneath the pile our signatures lay in a buried mound. Over the top of the cliff a fence lolled grotesquely. A tree hung listlessly awaiting its final crash. The sea-gulls swooped and darted. And on the shore, two watchers of the sea paced to and fro listening to the restless voice of the breakers on a far-off Island beach.

Nail Pond. Skinner’s Pond. What strange names to choose for districts! Pleasant View. It used to be Waterford, an inhabitant told us. The people did not like the name, so they changed it.

Miminegash Run. Now we are really getting somewhere.

Miminegash is a fishing village. There the sea has been encouraged and discouraged—encouraged to fill the “run” which is lined by two wharves; and dis— couraged to run over the background of firm red sand which serves as an excellent road at low tide. Out beyond, there is nothing but the sea. Formerly, the