At Cape Wolfe a snapshot from the Canoe of Wolfe Rock was 
     
     added to my mementos. When later developed, it turned out well 
     
     showing the Cape, the Rock offshore from the Cape and the sharp 
     
     prow of the canoe in the foreground. 
     
    
   
   
    
     In late afternoon black clouds suddenly appeared to the south- 
     
     west and in no time at all the wind started to whip up a choppy sea 
     
     which soon became quite rough. As we approached West Point I was 
     
     tempted to go ashore without rounding the Cape. As I soon after 
     
     learned, in this case I should have “yielded to temptation”. During 
     
     settled fine summer weather, I had observed, the wind started in early 
     
     morning in the Southwest shifting by mid-afternoon to the North- 
     
     west and by evening to the Northeast before dying down at sunset. 
     
    
   
   
    
     Now, sure sign of a storm, the wind swung counter-clockwise 
     
     from the Northwest to the Southwest and by the time I reached West 
     
     Point, it was blowing a gale of driving rain, the sky black as night, 
     
     and the waves so high and hungry-looking that it was just no place 
     
     for a canoe to be. Straining every nerve in watchfulness, however, I 
     
     somehow managed to round the Point and was soon safe in the lee of 
     
     West Point wharf. Here who should greet me but my old friend John 
     
     Stewart (with whom I had lived the previous Winter in Charlotte- 
     
     town), the only person at West Point that I knew and the only person 
     
     in sight at the Wharf. A strange coincidence indeed following so close 
     
     after the previous one and just as I arrived at the turning point, the 
     
     starting point for my long drive Eastward and “Ho!” for Home! 
     
    
   
   
    
     XI 
     
    
   
   
    
     From West Point Wharf John Stewart and I walked up the road 
     
     to his brother’s farm house and here I spent the night in a good corn— 
     
     fortable farm bed. Before dark had set in, the wind shifted into the 
     
    
   
   
    
     North-east; the beginning of our annual August gale. The day was 
     
     the 22nd of August. 
     
    
   
   
    
     Just at twilight we watched from the kitchen window two large 
     
     Caraquet Schooners come around West Point, their sails like the 
     
     wings of two large white gulls, heeling over, and come up into the 
     
     wind and drop anchor. 
     
    
   
   
    
     In the morning there were 28 Schooners and a large steamer 
     
     sheltered under the lee of the Island. The schooners had been caught 
     
    
   
   
    
     36