HEN we got back to town

W in late afternoon, the re

gatta was still in full swing. Jack ashore from the man-o'-war, in his white ducks and blue jacket and rollicking gait, was very much in evidence. The fisher lads in blue jerseys, and the rosy-cheeked lasses in new pink ribbons, were romping on the green, screaming in the swings, or picnicking on the grass.

Some persons have the idea that the climate of Newfoundland is bleak and austere. That certainly was not our experience. We reached St. John's on a bright and sunny day in July, and had tendered us by our hospitable hosts, Mr. and Mrs. J. Leamon, at their beautiful country home, a reception and garden party in as warm and genial weather as our western June, without its sometimes oppressive heat.

The Hon. J. J. Rogerson, brisk as a boy, though in the eighties; the Hon. S. C. Woods, and many other guests, including many ladies in summer toilettes, enjoyed an out-of-door entertainment in ideal weather. And such was most of the three weeks we spent in the island-the air transparent as crystal, the traditional fog conspicuous by its absence, the temperature delightful for walking or driving.

One day our drive took us up the famous Waterford Bridge Valley on to Topsail Harbor, the Brighton of St. John's, a beautiful outport overlooking the broad waters of Conception Bay, blue as the Bay of Naples, with Bell Island, containing one of the richest mines in the world, six miles in the offing. Our drive home by moonlight amid the fragrance of the hay fields was a very delightful experience.

Another outing was that planned by Mr. Arthur Martin, of the Post Office Department, to Portugal Cove and Bell Island. The descent into the cove

for rugged picturesqueness would be difficult to surpass. Cotereal, the Portuguese explorer, discovered this bay in 1501 and named it after his country.

But, though over four hundred years old, the hamlet is very small for its age. The quaint fishing village nestles amid the cliffs along the shore and climbs the rugged heights, presenting wonderfully picturesque confusion of rock and cabin, and, in the foreground, fishing boats and nets.

Two sturdy fishermen rowed us in one of their staunch boats to Bell Island, beguiling the way with stories of seal hunts on the ice and fishing adventures on the Labrador. Here we enjoyed the hospitality of Mr. T. Martin and of Mr. Chambers, manager of the Nova Scotia Steel and Coal Company's mines.

It

The island is probably the richest of its size in the world, eight miles long and two miles wide, elevated a couple of hundred feet above the sea. possesses one of the most remarkable deposits of iron in existence. On one of these beaches, says the Rev. George J. Bond, a fisherman obtained a load

The

of ballast for his boat and threw it out on the wharf at St. John's. It was found to be red hematite, one of the richest of iron ores. The price paid for one of the two mines now being worked was a million dollars. Thirtyfour millions of tons, it is averred, lie upon the surface, without counting. that obtainable by deep mining. ore is merely quarried, rather than mined. Two double track tramways, actuated by endless steel cables, convey the ore two miles across the island to the loading skips. It is then automatically dumped into immense bins. capable of holding twenty thousand tons. From the bins a horizontal line of steel buckets conveys the ore to the end of the pier and directly into the holds of the vessel. A thousand tons per hour can thus be put on board at a cost of only twenty-five cents per ton, including mining or quarrying and transport. A six thousand ton steel steamer can be filled in an afternoon.

It was a novel experience to ride across the island in an open car in this endless procession of ore carriers. It

was quite a distinction to have the whole train, two miles long, stop for the switching on and off of our rustic Pullman. More sensational still was it to ride out upon the cobweb-like steel structure to the ore chutes and then to descend on an almost perpendicular elevator in an open car, with no protection on its outer side, 265 feet to the water side. A confused mass of logs and timber were piled up like jackstraws at the base, which the long arm and steel tendons of a derrick swung high in air and raised on the elevator to the top. Our engravings will give some idea of the extraordinary character of this structure.

After a long day's outing we rowed. in the lingering twilight back to Portugal Cove, whose many lights twinkled across the water, and the fishermen and the ladies of the party and the local Methodist missionary sang to the musical dripping of the water from the oars good old-fash

ioned Methodist hymns. The glowing

daffodil sunset" paled to olive green and spectral white and ashen grey. The wine dark waves rippled under the lee and the shadows of night crept over sea and shore. It was a witching hour, a memory to be cherished for

ever.

A study of the map of Newfoundland presents some extraordinary

names. We have already met with Gaff Topsail Mountain and Topsail Harbor. We find also Come-bychance and Seldom-come-by, indicating the lonely character of the little ports, and Harbor Grace, Trinity, Conception, Bonavista and Notre Dame Bays, all evidences of the religious character of the early explorers. On the west shore the French names are full of historic significance, as Port-aux-Basques, commemorating the early Breton explorers, Le Grand and Le Petit Jardin, Bonne Bay, Rose Blanche, Grand Vache or Big Cow

Bay, Fleur de Lys, Langue de Cerf, L'Anse au Loup, Diable Bay, Chapeau Rouge and Cape Despoir, or Cape of Hope, which has been mistranslated into English as Cape Despair, Mal Bay, Isle aux Morts, Frenchman's Cove, etc. More significant to us are the English names Wreck Bay, Windy Point, Stormy Cape, Burnt Bay, Deadman's Island, Savage Point, Seal Cove, Pleasant Bay, and the like.

No one should fail to visit the ancient capital at Placentia, a name significant of its pleasing aspect. This is a quaint little town of five hundred inhabitants, founded and fortified by the French in 1660 and held by them until 1713. As one approaches by rail the winding bay, running ten miles inland, often studded with snowy sails, lies far beneath the eye like a Norwegian fiord. To get a closer acquaintance of its picturesque aspects

we hired a fisher lad to sail us up this hill-engirdled fiord. The sail was ideal, the sun was bright, the air was warm, the wind was brisk, the tide was running strongly with us, the scenery was superb. The fishing villages nestled at the base of the towering wood-clad cliffs. But when we assayed to return the conditions changed. The mist rolled in from the sea, the tide and wind were dead against us, we had to ship our sails and take to the oars, hug the shore to avoid the strength of the current, and by weary toil regain the point of our departure.

Our pleasant little inn was a quaint old house which had weathered the storms of over a hundred years, most of that time in the occupation of the same family. Here is the oldest Protestant church in the island, in a most dilapidated condition. On one of the