groceries in the canoe, tho’ I could use a bottle of fresh milk". “Sorry, we have a farm of 50 acres but we don’t keep a cow”.

Stanley told me that his cousin had cleared $800 fishing lobsters during the 2-month season. To my suggestion that with what he would pick up the rest of the year, he must be pretty well off, “what does he do?” I got the reply, “Oh, he doesn’t do anything."

Waving goodbye to Stanley, and blessed with another lovely day, I soon passed Dutchman Rock, rounded Cape Egmont, and landed at Fifteen Point (Mt. Carmel).

Here Fr. Nazaire Poirier, “Pu”, my old French teacher at St. Dunstan’s showed me through the Church at Mt. Carmel. Here all the beautiful church decorations, Stations of the Cross, etc., were made, so Father “Pu” told me with honest pride, by the local Acadians themselves, the original settlers having brought the craft with them from France. The most beautiful church I have ever seen! Over the archway at the gate of the old Cemetery overlooking the Northumberland Straits and set off by two Angels with trumpets, reads the inscription: “A NOS ENFANTS MORTS AU CHAMP D’HONEUR” Not “TO OUR HEROES SLAlN ON THE BATTLEFIELD” as we Anglo-Saxons might record, but “TO OUR CHILDREN DEAD ON THE FIELD OF HONOUR”.

Back at the shore, I stopped to read a copy of the Charlottetown Guardian which Father Poirier had kindly given me. Not having seen a newspaper for nearly two months, I devoured every inch of it, finally pushing off for Summerside.

And now my lack of proper preparation and my failure to provide myself with marine charts (1 had only a road map of P.E.l.) asserted itself. First thing I knew I was fast aground, or rather amud, in the middle of the Miscouche Shoals, the tide having receded as l paddled blissfully along. I blessed in blue language the dear old Guardian, the cause of my long delay in getting started. I suppose it was really not the Guardian’s fault, but at times like that, one has to have something else to blame for one’s own procrastination.

At any rate, here I was “stuck in the mud” with a heavily laden canoe over a mile from shore and evening coming on. Bending my back to the task and grasping the prow of the canoe, I managed by a series of jerking pulls whilst walking backwards to drag Tota some hundred yards until 1 finally reached an inside channel, pulling in

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