246 OVER ON THE ISLAND

water, New Brunswick stands out faintly but dis- cernibly. A government patrol boat passed up the Strait far out, on the look-out for poachers and smugglers. Along the shore smaller craft sit riding the waves ready to take off into the deep.

Cape Wolfe! Which is it? At each end of the crescent-shaped beach stand out two huge rocks separated from the mainland. The one on the right is Cape Wolfe. The other is the Dutchman. Long ago, Cape Wolfe rock was, of course, connected with the mainland. Now it stands out there alone, growing smaller and smaller, like a huge birthday cake with sea-gulls for frosting—like the inimitable Albert Hall of London. I waded out on the flat rock foundation and encircled the rock. Cape Wolfe! Every one in the district and for miles around will tell you that the place received its name from the fact that General Wolfe landed here on his way to Quebec, in 1758, for the purpose of getting water for his ship. History says that the tradition has no basis—~but that is no proof.

As I wander around this historic rock a boat rowed by seamen comes nearer and nearer to us. In the boat sits a tall man with red hair and fair complexion. His carriage is military and his gestures uncon- strained. His general assemblage of features exhibits spirit and animation. The boat comes still nearer. To the very rock it comes. Then, General Wolfe steps off near the place where I am standing, open- mouthed, and interested in his picturesque eighteenth- century costume. With scarcely a glance in my direc- tion his eyes sweep over the scene, and fall on the tiny stream trickling its way to the salty, thirsty Strait. He points to the stream, and the seamen go on ahead.