A LEGEND OF GENERAL WOLFE 241

place was a Micmac camping ground. To it they gave the name Miminegash—“what is carried. ”

The best time to visit Miminegash is at sunset—— when the sky and harbour meet in the flush of evening; when the lanky run hesitates between the rosy reflection and the shadows from the sheltering wharves; when an unusual stillness and sense of peace comes with the end of the day, and the consciousness of work well done; when the twilight comes

Then, Miminegash is at its best.

Sitting on the end of a wharf were two old “salts. ” Their backs spoke most eloquently of the sea, from their hip-length rubber boots to their salty, wind- blown hair. Their pipes . . . yes, their pipes— they, too, smelt of the sea—or something . . .

Stories? Why, they would be delighted! We were unable to believe our ears. After the way we had had to coax people to tell us yarns, here were two old tars who were not only willing but eager to tell us stories. We sat down quickly and dangled our legs gleefully over the end of the wharf. The one with green paint on his rubber boots took the helm first. As nearly as I can remember, this is what he told us, but not—not in the same words:

“ Many long years ago there lived an old, old Indian in this district of Miminegash. He was so very old that none of the other warriors could remember him as anything but old. Even the bears of the forest and the lobsters which crawled in the sea addressed him as ‘Father.’ To him the great Manitou had given the secret of the winds, and the lightning, the rain and the trees. Night after night he would wander around when all others were asleep, and speak with the spirit of the stars. The birds came at his call, and