The Eskimos at Ramah and at the stations south are all supposed to be Christians, but naturally they still retain many of the traditional beliefs and superstitions of their people. They will not live in a house where a death has occurred, believing that the spirit of the departed will haunt the place. If the building is worth it, they take it down and set it up again somewhere else.

Not long ago the wife of one of the Eskimos was taken seriously ill, and became delirious. Her husband and his neighbors, deciding that she was possessed of an evil spirit, tied her down and left her, until finally she died, uncared for and alone, from cold and lack of nourishment. This occurred at a distance from the station, and the missionaries did not learn of it until the woman was dead and beyond their aid. They are most kind in their ministrations to the sick and needy.

Once Dr. Grenfell visited Ramah and exhibited to the astonished Eskimos some stereopticon views—photographs that he had taken there in a previous year. It so happened that one of the pictures was that of an old woman who had died since the photograph was made, and when it appeared upon the screen terror struck the hearts of the simple- minded people. They believed it was her spirit returned to earth, and for a long time afterward imagined that they saw it floating about at night, visiting the woman's old haunts.

The daily routine of the mission station is most methodical. At seven o'clock in the morning a bell calls the servants to their duties; at nine o'clock it rings again, granting a half hour's rest; at a quarter to twelve a third ringing sends them to dinner; they return at one o'clock to work until dark. Every night at five o'clock the bell summons them to religious service in the chapel, where worship is conducted in Eskimo by either the missionary or the storekeeper. The women sit on one side, the men on the other, and are always in their seats before the last tone of the bell dies out. I used to enjoy these services exceedingly—watching the eager, expectant faces of the people as they heard the lesson taught, and their hearty singing of the hymns in Eskimo made the evening hour a most interesting one to me.

It is a busy life the missionary leads. From morning until night he is kept constantly at work, and in the night his rest is often broken by calls to minister to the sick. He is the father of his flock, and his people never hesitate to call for his help and advice; to him all their troubles and disagreements are referred for a wise adjustment.

I am free to say that previous to meeting them upon their field of labor I looked upon the work of these missionaries with indifference, if not disfavor, for I had been led to believe that they were accomplishing little or nothing. But now I have seen, and I know of what incalculable value the services are that they are rendering to the poor, benighted people of this coast.

They practically renounce the world and their home ties to spend their lives, until they are too old for further service or their health breaks down, in their Heaven-inspired calling, surrounded by people of a different race and language, in the most barren, God-cursed land in the world.

When their children reach the age of seven years they must send them to the church school at home to be educated. Very often parent and child never meet again. This is, as many of them told me, the greatest sacrifice they are called upon to make, but they realize that it is for the best good of the child and their work, and they do not murmur. What heroes and heroines these men and women are! One must admire and honor them.

There were some little ones here at Ramah who used to climb upon my knees and call me "Uncle," and kiss me good morning and good night, and I learned to love them. My recollections of these days at Ramah are pleasant ones.

Philippus Inglavina and Ludwig Alasua, two Eskimos, were engaged to hold themselves in readiness with their team of twelve dogs for a bright and early start for Hebron on the first clear morning. On the fourth morning after our arrival they announced that the weather was sufficiently clear for them to find their way over the hills. Mrs. Schmidt and Mrs. Filsehke filled an earthen jug with hot coffee and wrapped it, with some sandwiches, in a bearskin to keep from freezing for a few hours; sufficient wood to boil the kettle that night and the next morning was lashed with our baggage on the komatik; the Eskimos each received the daily ration of a plug of tobacco and a box of matches, which they demand when traveling, and then we said good-by and started. The komatik was loaded with Eskimos, and the rest of the native population trailed after us on foot. It is the custom on the coast for the people to accompany a komatik starting on a journey for some distance from the station.

The wind, which had died nearly out in the night, was rising again. It was directly in our teeth and shifting the loose snow unpleasantly. We had not gone far when one of the trailing Eskimos came running after us and shouting to our driver to stop. We halted, and when he overtook us he called the attention of Philippus to a high mountain known as Attanuek (the King), whose peak was nearly hidden by drifting snow. A consultation decided them that it would be dangerous to attempt the passes that day, and to our chagrin the Eskimos turned the dogs back to the station.

The next morning Attanuek's head was clear, the wind was light, the atmosphere bitter cold, and we were off in good season. We soon reached "Lamson's Hill," rising three thousand feet across our path, and shortly after daylight began the wearisome ascent, helping the dogs haul the komatik up steep places and wallowing through deep snow banks. Before noon one of our dogs gave out, and we had to cut him loose. An hour later we met George Ford on his way home to Nachvak from Davis Inlet, and some Eskimos with a team from the Hebron Mission, and from this latter team we borrowed a dog to take the place of the one that we had lost. Ford told us that his leader had gone mad that morning and he had been compelled to shoot it. He also in- formed me that wolves had followed him all the way from Okak to Hebron, mingling with his dogs at night, but at Hebron had left his trail.

At three o'clock we reached the summit of Lamson's Hill and began the perilous descent, where only the most expert maneuvering on the part of the Eskimos saved our komatik from being smashed. In many places we had to let the sledge down over steep places, after first removing the dogs, and it was a good while after dark when we reached the bottom. Then, after working the komatik over a mile of rough bowlders from which the wind had swept the snow, we at length came upon the sea ice of Saglak Bay, and at eight o'clock drew up at an igloosoak on an island several miles from the mainland.

This igloosoak was practically an underground dwelling, and the entrance was through a snow tunnel. From a single seal-gut window a dim light shone, but there was no other sign of human life. I groped my way into the tunnel, bent half double, stepping upon and stumbling over numerous dogs that blocked the way, and at the farther end bumped into a door. Upon pushing this open I found myself in a room perhaps twelve by fourteen feet in size. Three stone lamps shed a gloomy half light over the place, and revealed a low bunk, covered with sealskins, extending along two sides of the room, upon which nine Eskimos—men, women and children—were lying. A half inch of soft slush covered the floor. The whole place was reeking in filth, infested with vermin, and the stench was sickening.

The people arose and welcomed us as Eskimos always do, most cordially. Our two drivers, who followed me with the wood we had brought, made a fire in a small sheet-iron tent stove kept in the shack by the missionaries for their use when traveling, and on it we placed our kettle full of ice for tea, and our sandwiches to thaw, for they were frozen as hard as bullets. One of the old women was half dead with consumption, and constantly spitting, and when we saw her turning our sandwiches on the stove our appetite appreciably diminished.

At Ramah I had purchased some dried caplin for dog food for the night. The caplin is a small fish, about the size of a smelt or a little larger, and is caught in the neighborhood of Hamilton Inlet and south. They are brought north by the missionaries to use for dog food when traveling in the winter, as they are more easily packed on the komatik than seal meat. The Eskimos are exceedingly fond of these dried fish, and they appealed to our men as too great a delicacy to waste upon the dogs. Therefore when feeding time came, seal blubber, of which there was an abundant supply in the igloo, fell to the lot of the animals, while our drivers and hosts appropriated the caplin to themselves. The bag of fish was placed in the center, with a dish of raw seal fat alongside, with the men, women and children surrounding it, and they were still banqueting upon the fish and fat when I, weary with traveling, fell asleep in my bag.

It was not yet dark the next evening when we came in sight of the Eskimo village at the Hebron mission, and the whole population of one hundred and eighty people and two hundred dogs, the former shouting, the latter howling, turned out to greet us. Several of the young men, fleeter of foot than the others, ran out on the ice, and when they had come near enough to see who we were, turned and ran back again ahead of our dogs, shouting "Kablunot! Kablunot!" (outlanders), and so, in the midst of pandemonium, we drew into the station, and received from the missionaries a most cordial welcome.

Here I was fortunate in securing for the next eighty miles of our journey an Eskimo with an exceptionally fine team of fourteen dogs. This new driver—Cornelius was his name—made my heart glad by consenting to travel without an attendant. I was pleased at this be- cause experience had taught me that each additional man meant just so much slower progress.

No time was lost at Hebron, for the weather was fine, and early morning found us on our way. At Napartok we reached the "first wood," and the sight of a grove of green spruce tops above the snow seemed almost like a glimpse of home.

It was dreary, tiresome work, this daily plodding southward over the endless snow, sometimes upon the wide ice field, sometimes crossing necks of land with tedious ascents and dangerous descents of hills, making no halt while daylight lasted, save to clear the dogs' entangled traces and snatch a piece of hard-tack for a cheerless luncheon.

Okak, two days' travel south of Hebron, with a population of three hundred and twenty-nine, is the largest Eskimo village in Labrador and an important station of the Moravian missionaries. Besides the chapel, living apartments and store of the mission a neat, well- organized little hospital has just been opened by them and placed in charge of Dr. S. Hutton, an English physician. Young, capable and with every prospect of success at home, he and his charming wife have resigned all to come to the dreary Labrador and give their lives and efforts to the uplifting of this bit of benighted humanity.

We were entertained by the doctor and Mrs. Hutton and found them most delightful people. The only other member of the hospital corps was Miss S. Francis, a young woman who has prepared herself as a trained nurse to give her life to the service. I had an opportunity to visit with Dr. Hutton several of the Eskimo dwellings, and was struck by their cleanliness and the great advance toward civilization these people have made over their northern kinsmen. We had now reached a section where timber grows, and some of the houses were quite pretentious for the frontier—well furnished, of two or three rooms, and far superior to many of the homes of the outer coast breeds to the south. This, of course, is the visible result of the century of Moravian labors. Here I engaged, with the aid of the missionaries, Paulus Avalar and Boas Anton with twelve dogs to go with us to Nain, and after one day at Okak our march was resumed.

It is a hundred miles from Okak to Nain and on the way the Kiglapait Mountain must be crossed, as the Atlantic ice outside is liable to be shattered at any time should an easterly gale blow, and there is no possible retreat and no opportunity to escape should one be caught upon it at such a time, as perpendicular cliffs rise sheer from the sea ice here.

We had not reached the summit of the Kiglapait when night drove us into camp in a snow igloo. The Eskimos here are losing the art of snow-house building, and this one was very poorly constructed, and, with a temperature of thirty or forty degrees below zero, very cold and uncomfortable.

When we turned into our sleeping bags Paulus, who could talk a few words of English, remarked to me: "Clouds say big snow maybe. Here very bad. No dog feed. We go early," and pointing to my watch face indicated that we should start at midnight. At eleven o'clock I heard him and Boas get up and go out. Half an hour later they came back with a kettle of hot tea and we had breakfast. Then the two Eskimos, by candlelight read aloud in their language a form of worship and sang a hymn. All along the coast between Hebron and Makkovik I found morning and evening worship and grace before and after meals a regular institution with the Eskimos, whose religious training is carefully looked after by the Moravians.

By midnight our komatik was packed. "Ooisht! ooisht!" started the dogs forward as the first feathery flakes of the threatened storm fell lazily down. Not a breath of wind was stirring and no sound broke the ominous silence of the night save the crunch of our feet on the snow and the voice of the driver urging on the dogs.

Boas went ahead, leading the team on the trail. Presently he halted and shouted back that he could not make out the landmarks in the now thickening snow. Then we circled about until an old track was found and went on again. Time and again this maneuver was repeated. The snow now began to fall heavily and the wind rose.

No further sign of the track could be discovered and short halts were made while Paulus examined my compass to get his bearings.

Finally the summit of the Kiglapait was reached, and the descent was more rapid. At one place on a sharp down grade the dogs started on a run and we jumped upon the komatik to ride. Moving at a rapid pace the team, dimly visible ahead, suddenly disappeared. Paulus rolled off the komatik to avoid going over the ledge ahead, but the rest of us had no time to jump, and a moment later the bottom fell out of our track and we felt ourselves dropping through space. It was a fall of only fifteen feet, but in the night it seemed a hundred. Fortunately we landed on soft snow and no harm was done, but we had a good shaking up.

The storm grew in force with the coming of daylight. Forging on through the driving snow we reached the ocean ice early in the forenoon and at four o'clock in the afternoon the shelter of an Eskimo hut.

The storm was so severe the next morning our Eskimos said to venture out in it would probably mean to get lost, but before noon the wind so far abated that we started.

The snow fell thickly all day, the wind began to rise again, and a little after four o'clock the real force of the gale struck us in one continued, terrific sweep, and the snow blew so thick that we nearly smothered. The temperature was thirty degrees below zero. We could not see the length of the komatik. We did not dare let go of it, for had we separated ourselves a half dozen yards we should certainly have been lost.

Somehow the instincts of drivers and dogs, guided by the hand of a good Providence, led us to the mission house at Nain, which we reached at five o'clock and were overwhelmed by the kindness of the Moravians. This is the Moravian headquarters in Labrador, and the Bishop, Right Reverend A. Martin, with his aids, is in charge.

It was Saturday night when we reached Nain, and Sunday was spent here while we secured new drivers and dogs and waited for the storm to blow over.

Every one was so cordial and hospitable that I almost regretted the necessity of leaving on Monday morning. The day was excessively cold and a head wind froze cheeks and noses and required an almost constant application of the hand to thaw them out and prevent them from freezing permanently. Easton even frosted his elbow through his heavy clothing of reindeer skin.

During the second day from Nain we met Missionary Christian Schmitt returning from a visit to the natives farther south, and on the ice had a half hour's chat.

That evening we reached Davis Inlet Post of the Hudson's Bay Company, and spent the night with Mr. Guy, the agent, and the following morning headed southward again, passed Cape Harrigan, and in another two days reached Hopedale Mission, where we arrived just ahead of one of the fierce storms* so frequent here at this season of the year, which held us prisoners from Thursday night until Monday morning. Two days later we pulled in at Makkovik, the last station of the Moravians on our southern trail.

* Since writing the above I have learned that a half-breed whom I met at Davis Inlet, his wife and a young native left that point for Hope- dale just after us, were overtaken by this storm, lost their way, and were probably overcome by the elements. Their dogs ate the bodies and a week later returned, well fed, to Davis Inlet. Dr. Grenfell found the bones in the spring.



CHAPTER XXIII

BACK TO NORTHWEST RIVER

We had now reached an English-speaking country; that is, a section where every one talked understandable English, though at the same time nearly every one was conversant with the Eskimo language.

All down the coast we had been fortunate in securing dogs and drivers with little trouble through the intervention of the missionaries; but at Makkovik dogs were scarce, and it seemed for a time as though we were stranded here, but finally, with missionary Townley's aid I engaged an old Eskimo named Martin Tuktusini to go with us to Rigolet. When I looked at Martin's dogs, however, I saw at once that they were not equal to the journey, unaided. Neither had I much faith in Martin, for he was an old man who had nearly reached the end of his usefulness.

A day was lost in vainly looking around for additional dogs, and then Mr. Townley generously loaned us his team and driver to help us on to Big Bight, fifteen miles away, where he thought we might get dogs to supplement Martin's.

At Big Bight we found a miserable hut, where the people were indescribably poor and dirty. A team was engaged after some delay to carry us to Tishialuk, thirty miles farther on our journey, which place we reached the following day at eleven o'clock.

There is a single hovel at Tishialuk, occupied by two brothers—John and Sam Cove—and their sister. Their only food was flour, and a limited quantity of that. Even tea and molasses, usually found amongst the "livyeres" (live-heres) of the coast, were lacking. Sam was only too glad of the opportunity to earn a few dollars, and was engaged with his team to join forces with Martin as far as Rigolet.

There are two routes from Tishialuk to Rigolet. One is the "Big Neck" route over the hills, and much shorter than the other, which is known as the outside route, though it also crosses a wide neck of land inside of Cape Harrison, ending at Pottle's Bay on Hamilton Inlet. It was my intention to take the Big Neck trail, but Martin strenuously opposed it on the ground that it passed over high hills, was much more difficult, and the probabilities of getting lost should a storm occur were much greater by that route than by the other. His objections prevailed, and upon the afternoon of the day after our arrival Sam was ready, and in a gale of wind we ran down on the ice to Tom Bromfield's cabin at Tilt Cove, that we might be ready to make an early start for Pottle's Bay the following morning, as the whole day would be needed to cross the neck of land to Pottle's Bay and the neatest shelter beyond.

Tom is a prosperous and ambitious hunter, and is fairly well-to-do as it goes on the Labrador. His one-room cabin was very comfortable, and he treated us to unwonted luxuries, such as butter, marmalade, and sugar for our tea.

During the evening he displayed to me the skin of a large wolf which he had killed a few days before, and told us the story of the killing.

"I were away, sir," related he, "wi' th' dogs, savin' one which I leaves to home, 'tendin' my fox traps. The woman (meaning his wife) were alone wi' the young ones. In the evenin' (afternoon) her hears a fightin' of dogs outside, an' thinkin' one of the team was broke loose an' run home, she starts to go out to beat the beasts an' put a stop to the fightin'. But lookin' out first before she goes, what does she see but the wolf that owned that skin, and right handy to the door he were, too. He were a big divil, as you sees, sir. She were scared. Her tries to take down the rifle—the one as is there on the pegs, sir. The wolf and the dog be now fightin' agin' the door, and she thinks they's handy to breakin' in, and it makes her a bit shaky in the hands, and she makes a slip and the rifle he goes off bang! makin' that hole there marrin' the timber above the windy. Then the wolf he goes off too; he be scared at the shootin'. When I comes home she tells me, and I lays fur the beast. 'Twere the next day and I were in the house when I hears the dogs fightin' and I peers out the windy, and there I sees the wolf fightin' wi' the dogs, quite handy by the house. Well, sir, I just gits the rifle down and goes out, and when the dogs sees me they runs and leaves the wolf, and I up and knocks he over wi' a bullet, and there's his skin, worth a good four dollars, for he be an extra fine one, sir."

We sat up late that night listening to Tom's stories.

The next morning was leaden gray, and promised snow. With the hope of reaching Pottle's Bay before dark we started forward early, and at one o'clock in the afternoon were in the soft snow of the spruce-covered neck. Traveling was very bad and progress so slow that darkness found us still amongst the scrubby firs. Martin and I walked ahead of the dogs, making a path and cutting away the growth where it was too thick to permit the passage of the teams.

Martin was guiding us by so circuitous a path that finally I began to suspect he had lost his way, and, calling a halt, suggested that we had better make a shelter and stop until daylight, particularly as the snow was now falling. When you are lost in the bush it is a good rule to stop where you are until you make certain of your course. Martin in this instance, however, seemed very positive that we were going in the right direction, though off the usual trail, and he said that in another hour or so we would certainly come out and find the salt-water ice of Hamilton Inlet. So after an argument I agreed to proceed and trust in his assurances.

Easton, who was driving the rear team, was completely tired out with the exertion of steering the komatik through the brush and untangling the dogs, which seemed to take a delight in spreading out and getting their traces fast around the numerous small trees, and I went to the rear to relieve him for a time from the exhausting work.

It was nearly two o'clock in the morning when we at length came upon the ice of a brook which Martin admitted he had never seen before and confessed that he was completely lost. I ordered a halt at once until daylight. We drank some cold water, ate some hard-tack and then stretched our sleeping bags upon the snow and, all of us weary, lay down to let the drift cover us while we slept.

At dawn we were up, and with a bit of jerked venison in my hand to serve for breakfast, I left the others to lash the load on the komatiks and follow me and started on ahead. I had walked but half a mile when I came upon the rough hummocks of the Inlet ice. Before noon we found shelter from the now heavily driving snowstorm in a livyere's hut and here remained until the following morning.

Just beyond this point, in crossing a neck of land, we came upon a small hut and, as is usual on the Labrador, stopped for a moment. The people of the coast always expect travelers to stop and have a cup of tea with them, and feel that they have been slighted if this is not done. Here I found a widow named Newell, whom I knew, and her two or three small children. It was a miserable hut, without even the ordinary comforts of the poorer coast cabins, only one side of the earthen floor partially covered with rough boards, and the people destitute of food. Mrs. Newell told me that the other livyeres were giving her what little they had to eat, and had saved them during the winter from actual starvation. I had some hardtack and tea in my "grub bag," and these I left with her.

Two days later we pulled in at Rigolet and were greeted by my friend Fraser. It was almost like getting home again, for now I was on old, familiar ground. A good budget of letters that had come during the previous summer awaited us and how eagerly we read them! This was the first communication we had received from our home folks since the previous June and it was now February twenty-first.

We rested with Fraser until the twenty-third, and then with Mark Pallesser, a Groswater Bay Eskimo, turned in to Northwest River where Stanton, upon coming from the interior, had remained to wait for our return that he might join us for the balance of the journey out. The going was fearful and snowshoeing in the heavy snow tiresome. It required two days to reach Mulligan, where we spent the night with skipper Tom Blake, one of my good old friends, and at Tom's we feasted on the first fresh venison we had had since leaving the Ungava district. In the whole distance from Whale River not a caribou had been killed during the winter by any one, while in the previous winter a single hunter at Davis Inlet shot in one day a hundred and fifty, and only ceased then because he had no more ammunition. Tom had killed three or four, and south of this point I learned of a hunter now and then getting one.

Northwest River was reached on Monday, February twenty-sixth, and we took Cotter by complete surprise, for he had not expected us for another month.

The day after our arrival Stanton came to the Post from a cabin three miles above, where he had been living alone, and he was delighted to see us.

The lumbermen at Muddy Lake, twenty miles away, heard of our arrival and sent down a special messenger with a large addition to the mail which I was carrying out and which had been growing steadily in bulk with its accumulations at every station.

This is the stormiest season of the year in Labrador, and weather conditions were such that it was not until March sixth that we were permitted to resume our journey homeward.



CHAPTER XXIV

THE END OF THE LONG TRAIL

The storm left the ice covered with a depth of soft snow into which the dogs sank deep and hauled the komatik with difficulty. Snowshoeing, too, was unusually hard. The day we left Northwest River (Tuesday, March sixth) the temperature rose above the freezing point, and when it froze that night a thin crust formed, through which our snowshoes broke, adding very materially to the labor of walking—and of course it was all walking.

As the days lengthened and the sun asserting his power, pushed higher and higher above the horizon, the glare upon the white expanse of snow dazzled our eyes, and we had to put on smoked glasses to protect ourselves from snow-blindness. Even with the glasses our driver, Mark, became partially snow-blind, and when, on the evening of the third day after leaving Northwest River, we reached his home at Karwalla, an Eskimo settlement a few miles west of Rigolet, it became necessary for us to halt until he was sufficiently recovered to enable him to travel again.

Here we met some of the Eskimos that had been connected with the Eskimo village at the World's Fair at Chicago, in 1893. Mary, Mark's wife, was one of the number. She told me of having been exhibited as far west as Portland, Oregon, and I asked:

"Mary, aren't you discontented here, after seeing so much of the world? Wouldn't you like to go back?"

"No, sir," she answered. "'Tis fine here, where I has plenty of company. 'Tis too lonesome in the States, sir."

"But you can't get the good things to eat here—the fruits and other things," I insisted.

"I likes the oranges and apples fine, sir—but they has no seal meat or deer's meat in the States."

It was not until Tuesday, March thirteenth, three days after our arrival at Karwalla, that Mark thought himself quite able to proceed. The brief "mild" gave place to intense cold and blustery, snowy weather. We pushed on toward West Bay, on the outer coast again, by the "Backway," an arm of Hamilton Inlet that extends almost due east from Karwalla.

At West Bay I secured fresh dogs to carry us on to Cartwright, which I hoped to reach in one day more. But the going was fearfully poor, soft snow was drifted deep in the trail over Cape Porcupine, the ice in Traymore was broken up by the gales, and this necessitated a long detour, so it was nearly dark and snowing hard when we at last reached the house of James Williams, at North River, just across Sandwich Bay from Cartwright Post. The greeting I received was so kindly that I was not altogether disappointed at having to spend the night here.

"We've been expectin' you all winter, sir," said Mrs. Williams. "When you stopped two years ago you said you'd come some other time, and we knew you would. 'Tis fine to see you again, sir."

On the afternoon of March seventeenth we reached Cartwright Post of the Hudson's Bay Company, and my friend Mr. Ernest Swaffield, the agent, and Mrs. Swaffield, who had been so kind to me on my former trip, gave us a cordial welcome. Here also I met Dr. Mumford, the resident physician at Dr. Grenfell's mission hospital at Battle Harbor, who was on a trip along the coast visiting the sick.

Another four days' delay was necessary at Cartwright before dogs could be found to carry us on, but with Swaffield's aid I finally secured teams and we resumed our journey, stopping at night at the native cabins along the route. Much bad weather was encountered to retard us and I had difficulty now and again in securing dogs and drivers. Many of the men that I had on my previous trip, when I brought Hubbard's body out to Battle Harbor, were absent hunting, but whenever I could find them they invariably engaged with me again to help me a stage upon the journey.

From Long Pond, near Seal Islands, neither I nor the men I had knew the way (when I traveled down the coast on the former occasion my drivers took a route outside of Long Pond), and that afternoon we went astray, and with no one to set us right wandered about upon the ice until long after dark, looking for a hut at Whale Bight, which was finally located by the dogs smelling smoke and going to it.

A little beyond Whale Bight we came upon a bay that I recognized, and from that point I knew the trail and headed directly to Williams' Harbor, where I found John and James Russell, two of my old drivers, ready to take us on to Battle Harbor.

At last, on the afternoon of March twenty-sixth we reached the hospital, and how good it seemed to be back almost within touch of civilization. It was here that I ended that long and dreary sledge journey with the last remains of dear old Hubbard, in the spring of 1904, and what a flood of recollections came to me as I stood in front of the hospital and looked again across the ice of St. Lewis Inlet! How well I remembered those weary days over there at Fox Harbor, watching the broken, heaving ice that separated me from Battle Island; the little boat that one day came into the ice and worked its way slowly through it until it reached us and took us to the hospital and the ship; and how thankful I felt that I had reached here with my precious burden safe.

Mrs. Mumford made us most welcome, and entertained me in the doctor's house, and was as good and kind as she could be.

I must again express my appreciation of the truly wonderful work that Dr. Grenfell and his brave associates are carrying on amongst the people of this dreary coast. Year after year, they brave the hardships and dangers of sea and fog and winter storms that they may minister to the lowly and needy in the Master's name. It is a saying on the coast that "even the dogs know Dr. Grenfell," and it is literally true, for his activities carry him everywhere and God knows what would become of some of the people if he were not there to look after them. His practice extends over a larger territory than that of any other physician in the world, but the only fee he ever collects is the pleasure that comes with the knowledge of work well done.

At Battle Harbor I was told by a trader that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to procure dogs to carry us up the Straits toward Quebec, and I was strongly advised to end my snowshoe and dog journey here and wait for a steamer that was expected to come in April to the whaling station at Cape Charles, twelve miles away. This seemed good advice, for if we could get a steamer here within three weeks or so that would take us to St. Johns we should reach home probably earlier than we possibly could by going to Quebec.

There is a government coast telegraph line that follows the north shore of the St. Lawrence from Quebec to Chateau Bay, but the nearest office open at this time was at Red Bay, sixty-five miles from Battle Harbor, and I determined to go there and get into communication with home and at the same time telegraph to Bowring Brothers in St. Johns and ascertain from them exactly when I might expect the whaling steamer.

William Murphy offered to carry me over with his team, and, leaving Stanton and Easton comfortably housed at Battle Harbor and both of them quite content to end their dog traveling here, on the morning after my arrival Murphy and I made an early start for Red Bay.

Except in the more sheltered places the bay ice had broken away along the Straits and we had to follow the rough ice barricades, sometimes working inland up and down the rocky hills and steep grades. Before noon we passed Henley Harbor and the Devil's Dining Table—a basaltic rock formation—and a little later reached Chateau Bay and had dinner in a native house. Beyond this point there are cabins built at intervals of a few miles as shelter for the linemen when making repairs to the wire. We passed one of these at Wreck Cove toward evening, but as a storm was threatening, pushed on to the next one at Green Bay, fifty-five miles from Battle Harbor. It was dark before we got there, and to reach the Bay we had to descend a steep hill. I shall never forget the ride down that hill. It is very well to go over places like that when you know the way and what you are likely to bring up against, but I did not know the way and had to pin my faith blindly on Murphy, who had taken me over rotten ice during the day—- ice that waved up and down with our weight and sometimes broke behind us. My opinion of him was that he was a reckless devil, and when we began to descend that hill, five hundred feet to the bay ice, this opinion was strengthened. I would have said uncomplimentary things to him had time permitted. I expected anything to happen. It looked in the night as though a sheer precipice with a bottomless pit below was in front of us. Two drags were thrown over the komatik runners to hold us back, but in spite of them we went like a shot out of a gun, he on one side, I on the other, sticking our heels into the hard snow as we extended our legs ahead, trying our best to hold back and stop our wild progress. But, much to my surprise, when we got there, and I verily believe to Murphy's surprise also, we landed right side up at the bottom, with no bones broken. There were three men camped in the shack here, and we spent the night with them.

Early the next day we reached Red Bay and the telegraph office. There are no words in the English language adequate to express my feelings of gratification when I heard the instruments clicking off the messages. It had been seventeen years since I had handled a telegraph key—when I was a railroad telegrapher down in New England—and how I fondled that key, and what music the click of the sounder was to my ears!

My messages were soon sent, and then I sat down to wait for the replies.

The office was in the house of Thomas Moors, and he was good enough to invite me to stop with him while in Red Bay. His daughter was the telegraph operator.

The next day the answers to my telegrams came, and many messages from friends, and one from Bowring & Company stating that no steamer would be sent to Cape Charles. I had been making inquiries here, however, in the meantime, and learned that it was quite possible to secure dogs and continue the journey up the north shore, so I was not greatly disappointed. I dispatched Murphy at once to Battle Harbor to bring on the other men, waiting myself at Red Bay for their coming, and holding teams in readiness for an immediate departure when they should arrive.

They drove in at two o'clock on April fourth, and we left at once. On the morning of the sixth we passed through Blanc Sablon, the boundary line between Newfoundland and Canadian territory, and here I left the Newfoundland letters from my mail bag. From this point the majority of the natives are Acadians, and speak only French.

At Brador Bay I stopped to telegraph. No operator was there, so I sent the message myself, left the money on the desk and proceeded.

Three days more took us to St. Augustine Post of the Hudson's Bay Company, where we arrived in the morning and accepted the hospitality of Burgess, the Agent.

Our old friends the Indians whom we met on our inland trip at Northwest River were here, and John, who had eaten supper with us at our camp on the hill on the first portage, expressed great pleasure at meeting us, and had many questions to ask about the country. They had failed in their deer hunt, and had come out half starved a week or so before, from the interior.

We did fifty miles on the eleventh, changing dogs at Harrington at noon and running on to Sealnet Cove that night. Here we found more Indians who had just emerged from the interior, driven to the coast for food like those at St. Augustine as the result of their failure to find caribou.

Two days later we reached the Post at Romain, and on the afternoon of April seventeenth reached Natashquan and open water. Here I engaged passage on a small schooner—the first afloat in the St. Lawrence—to take us on to Eskimo Point, seventy miles farther, where the Quebec steamer, King Edward, was expected to arrive in a week or so. That night we boarded the schooner and sailed at once. Into the sea I threw the clothes I had been wearing, and donned fresh ones. What a relief it was to be clear of the innumerable horde "o' wee sma' beasties" that had been my close companions all the way down from the Eskimo igloos in the North. I have wondered many times since whether those clothes swam ashore, and if they did what happened to them.

It was a great pleasure to be upon the water again, and see the shore slip past, and feel that no more snowstorms, no more bitter northern blasts, no more hungry days and nights were to be faced.

Since June twenty-fifth, the day we dipped our paddles into the water of Northwest River and turned northward into the wastes of the great unknown wilderness, eight hundred miles had been traversed in reaching Fort Chimo, and on our return journey with dogs and komatik and snowshoes, two thousand more.

We reached Eskimo Point on April twentieth, and that very day a rain began that turned the world into a sea of slush. I was glad indeed that our komatik work was finished, for it would now have been very difficult, if not impossible, to travel farther with dogs.

I at once deposited in the post office the bag of letters that I had carried all the way from far-off Ungava. This was the first mail that any single messenger had ever carried by dog train from that distant point, and I felt quite puffed up with the honor of it.

The week that we waited here for the King Edward was a dismal one, and when the ship finally arrived we lost no time in getting ourselves and our belongings aboard. It was a mighty satisfaction to feel the pulse of the engines that with every revolution took us nearer home, and when at last we tied up at the steamer's wharf in Quebec, I heaved a sigh of relief.

On April thirtieth, after an absence of just eleven months, we found ourselves again in the whirl and racket of New York. The portages and rapids and camp fires, the Indian wigwams and Eskimo igloos and the great, silent white world of the North that we had so recently left were now only memories. We had reached the end of The Long Trail. The work of exploration begun by Hubbard was finished.



APPENDIX

LABRADOR PLANTS

Specimens collected along the route of the expedition between Northwest River and Lake Michikamau. Determined at the New York Botanical Gardens:

Ledum groonlandicum, Oeder. Comarum palustre L. Rubus arcticus L. Solidago multiradiata. Ait. Sanguisorba Canadensis L. Linnaea Americana, Forbes. Dasiphora fruticosa (L), Rydb. Chamnaerion latifolium (L), Sweet. Viburnum pancifloram, Pylaim. Viscaxia alpina (L), Roehl. Menyanthes trifoliata L. Vaznera trifolia (L), Morong. Ledum prostratum, Rotlb. Betula glandulosa, Michx. Kalmia angustifolia. Aronia nigra (Willd), Britt. Comus Canadensis L. Arenaria groenlandica (Retz), Spreng. Barbarea stricta, Audry. Eriophorum russeolum, Fries. Eriophorum polystachyon L. Phegopteris Phegopt@ (L), Fee.

LICHENS

Cladonia deformis (L), Hoffen. Alectoria dehrolenea (Ehrh.), Nyl. Umbilicaria Neuhlenbergii (Ac L.), Tuck.

GEOLOGICAL NOTES By G. M. Richards All bearings given, refer to the true meridian.

My sincere thanks are due Prof. J.F. Kemp and Dr. C.P. Berkey, whose generous assistance has made this work possible.

ROUTE FOLLOWED

The route was by steamer to the head of Hamilton Inlet, Labrador— thence by canoes up Grand Lake and the Nascaupee River. Fifteen miles above Grand Lake, a portage route was followed which makes a long detour through a series of lakes to avoid rapids in the river. This trail again returns to the Nascaupee River at Seal Lake and for some fifty miles above Seal Lake, follows the river. It then leaves the Nascaupee, making a second long detour through lakes to the north. On one of these lakes (Bibiquasin Lake) the trail was lost, and thereafter we traveled in a westerly direction until reaching Lake Michikamau.

Our food supply was then in so depleted a condition the party was obliged to separate, three of us returning to Northwest River.

It will be understood that the circumstances would allow of but a very limited examination of the geological features of the country. Only typical rock specimens, or those whose character was at all doubtful were brought back.

PREVIOUS EXPLORATION

Mr. A.P. Low penetrated to Lake Michikamau, by way of the Grand River. He has thoroughly described the lake in his report to the Canadian Geological Survey, 1895, and it is not touched upon in the following paper. In the summer of 1903, an expedition led by Leonidas Hubbard, Jr., attempted to reach Lake Michikamau by ascending the Nascaupee River; they, however, missed the mouth of that stream on Grand Lake and followed the Susan River instead, pursuing a northwesterly course for two months without reaching the lake. On the return journey, Mr. Hubbard died of starvation, his two companions, Mr. Wallace and a half-breed Indian, barely escaping a similar fate.

GEOGRAPHICAL RESULTS OF THE EXPEDITION

The Northwest River represented on the map of the Canadian Geological Survey (made from information obtained from the Indians) as draining Lake Michikamau, is but three and one-half miles long, and connects Grand Lake with Hamilton Inlet. There are six streams flowing into Grand Lake, instead of only one. It is the Nascaupee River that flows from Lake Michikamau to Grand Lake; and Seal Lake instead of being the source of the Nascaupee River is merely an expansion of it.

The source of the Crooked River was also discovered and mapped, as well as a great number of smaller lakes.

On the Northern Slope the George and Koroksoak Rivers and several lakes were mapped, and some smaller rivers located.

DETAILED DESCRIPTION OF ROUTE EXPLORED

Northwest River which flows into a small sandy bay at the head of Hamilton Inlet is only three and one-half miles long and drains Grand Lake.

For one-quarter of a mile above its mouth the river maintains an average width of one hundred and fifty yards, and a depth of two and one-half fathoms. It then expands into a shallow sheet of water two miles wide and three miles long, known locally as "The Little Lake." At the head of this small expansion the river again contracts where it flows out of Grand Lake. This point is known as "The Rapids," and although there is a strong current, the stream may be ascended in canoes without tracking.

At the foot of "The Rapids" the effect of the spring tides is barely perceptible. Between Grand Lake and the head of Hamilton Inlet, Northwest River flows through a deposit of sand marked by several distinct marine terraces.

Grand Lake is a body of fresh water forty miles long and from two to six miles in width, having a direction N. 75 degrees W. It lies in a deep valley between rocky hills that rise to a height of about four hundred feet above the lake, and was doubtless at one time an extension of Hamilton Inlet. At Cape Corbeau and Berry Head the rocks rise almost perpendicularly from the water; at the former place, to a height of three hundred feet. Except in a few places the hills are covered to their summits by a thick growth of small spruce and fir.

At the head of the lake there are two bays, one extending slightly to the southwest, the other nearly due north. Into the former flow the Susan and Beaver Rivers, while into the latter empties the water of the Nascaupee and Crooked Rivers. Besides these there are two small streams, the Cape Corbeau River on the south, and Watty's Brook on the north shore.

At the point where the Nascaupee and Crooked Rivers enter the lake there are two low islands of sand, and a great deal of sand is being carried down by the two streams and deposited in the lake, which is very shallow for some distance from the shore.

Three miles above the mouth of the Nascaupee River it is separated from the Crooked River by a plain of stratified sand and gravel, three-quarters of a mile wide, with two well-defined terraces. The first is twenty feet above the river and extends back some three hundred yards to a second terrace, rising seventy-five feet above the first.

Half way between this terrace and the Crooked River is, the old bed of the Nascaupee River, nearly parallel to its present course. A similar abandoned channel curve was found, making a small arc to the south of the Crooked River.

Above Grand Lake the Nascaupee River flows through an ancient valley, which is from a few hundred yards to a mile wide and cut deep into the old Archaean rocks, affording an excellent example of river erosion. The banks are of sand, and in some places clay, extending back to the foot of the precipitous hills. Apparently the ancient river valley has been partly filled with drift, down through which the river has cut its way; the present bed of the stream being of post glacial formation. The general direction of the river is N. 83 degrees W.

Fifteen miles above Grand Lake, the Red River joins the main stream, coming from N. 87 degrees W. Below its junction with the latter stream, the Nascaupee River has a width varying between two and three hundred yards, and an average depth of about ten feet.

The Red River is two hundred feet wide, and its water, unlike that of the main stream, has a red brown color, like that of many of the streams of Ontario which have their source in swamp or Muskeg lands.

The first rapids in the Red River are said to be eight miles above its mouth. Directly opposite the junction of the two streams the portage leaves the Nascaupee River. The direction is N. 24 degrees E. and the distance five and one-half miles, with an elevation of 1050 feet above the river at the end of the second mile.

The last three and one-half miles lead across a level tableland, to a small lake, from which the trail descends through two lakes into a shallow valley.

The entire country from the head of Grand Lake to this point has been devastated by fire, only a few trees near the water having escaped destruction, and the ground, except in a few places, is destitute even of its usual covering of reindeer moss.

The underlying rock is gneiss, and the country from the Nascaupee River is thickly strewn with huge glacial bowlders.

The majority of these bowlders have been derived from the immediate vicinity, but many consisting of a coarse pegmatite carrying considerable quantities of ilmenite were observed. None of this rock was seen in place.

The valley last mentioned is separated from the Crooked River by Caribou Ridge, a broad, flat-topped elevation, three hundred and fifty feet high, dotted by small lakes, which fill almost every appreciable depression in the rock.

The general course to the Crooked River is northeast; at the point where the portage reaches it the stream is fifty yards wide and very shallow; flowing over a bed of coarse drift, which obstructs the river, forming a series of small lake expansions with rapids at the outlet of each. Between Grand Lake and the point where we reached the river, the Indians say it is not navigable in canoes, owing to rapids.

The Crooked River has its source in Lake Nipishish, which is about twenty-two miles long, with an average width of three miles, and a course due north. Six miles above the outlet of the lake is a bay, five miles long, extending N. 80 degrees W.

Along the north shore of the lake and in the bay are several small islands of drift, and many huge angular bowlders projecting above the water. The country in the vicinity of the lake and in the valley of the Crooked River is covered with mounds and ridges of drift and many small moraines.

These moraines consisting of bowlders for the most part from the immediate vicinity, seemed to have no given direction, but were usually found at the ends of, and in a transverse direction to the ridges.

The trail leaves Lake Nipishish near the head of the large bay, continuing in a direction between north and northwest, through several insignificant lakes, all drained indirectly by the Crooked River, until it reached Otter Lake, which is eight miles long, running nearly north and south, and is five hundred and fifty feet below the summits of the surrounding hills.

From Otter Lake, the course is west through five diminutive lakes, and across a series of sandy ridges to a small shallow lake, which is the source of Babewendigash River. Between this lake and Seal Lake intervene a high range of mountains—the highest seen on the journey to Lake Michikamau—rising fully one thousand feet above the level of Seal Lake. They are visible for miles in any direction, and were seen from Caribou Ridge nearly a month before we reached them.

They are glaciated to their summits, which are entirely destitute of vegetation and in August were still, in places, covered with snow. Babewendigash River winds to and fro between the mountains, its course being determined to a great extent by esker ridges that follow it on either side and which are often more than one hundred feet high. Throughout its length of twenty-five miles there are five rapids and three small lake expansions.

Seal Lake, into which the river flows, is in part an expansion of the Nascaupee River and fills a basin surrounded on every side by mountains, rising several hundred feet above the water. The lake is comparatively shallow, and has a perceptible current. There are several small islands of drift, covered by a scanty growth of spruce and willow. The main lake has direction N. 45 degrees W., and is ten miles long and two and one-half miles wide. The northwestern arm is fifteen miles long, with the same width, and a course N. 80 degrees W.

The steep rocky shores have precluded the formation of terraces. Above Seal Lake the course of the Nascaupee River varies between N. 40 degrees W. and N. 80 degrees W.

Five miles above the lake there is an expansion of the river, called Wuchusk Nipi, or Muskrat Lake, which is eight miles long and a mile and a half wide, with a course N. 40 degrees W. Except for a channel along the western shore, the lake is very shallow, being nearly filled with sand carried down by the river. There is a small stream flowing into this lake expansion near its head, called Wuchusk Nipishish.

For fifty miles above Muskrat Lake, the river flows between sandy banks, marked on either side by two well-defined terraces. The river valley gradually becomes more narrow and the current stronger and with the exception of a few small expansions, progress is only possible by means of tracking. There are, however, in this distance but two rapids necessitating portages.

Opposite the point where the portage leaves the Nascaupee to make a second long detour around rapids, a small river flows in from the southwest, having a sheer fall of almost fifty feet, just above its junction with the main stream.

The trail, after leaving the river, has a course N. 35 degrees W. for two miles; it then turns N. 85 degrees W. six miles, and again N. 55 degrees W. four miles.

In its course are four small lakes, but there is an unbroken portage of eight miles between the last two. Nearly the whole country has been denuded by fire, and the prospect is desolate in the extreme. The end of the portage is on the high rolling plateau of the interior, timbered by a sparse and stunted second growth of spruce, covered everywhere with white reindeer moss, and strewn with lakes innumerable.

The trail which runs N. 50 degrees W. and has not been used for eight years, gradually became more and more indistinct, until on Bibiquasin Lake it disappeared entirely. Thereafter the course was N. 70 degrees W., and finally due west, through a series of lakes which at last brought us to Lake Michikamau. The largest of this series is Kasheshebogamog Lake, a sheet of water twenty-three miles long, but broken by numerous bays and countless islands of drift, with a direction S. 75 degrees W. The lake is confined between long bowlder- covered ridges, and is fed at its western end by a small stream.

Although its outlet was not discovered, it doubtless drains into the Nascaupee River.

On the return journey an attempt was made to descend the Nascaupee River below Seal Lake.

The river leaves the lake at its southeastern extremity, flowing between hills that rise almost straight from the waters edge, and is one long continuation of heavy rapids. After following the stream for two days we were obliged to retrace our steps to Seal Lake, thereafter keeping to the course pursued on the inland journey.

DETAILS OF ROCK EXPOSURE

The numbers following the names of rocks refer to corresponding numbers in appendix.

Of the rocks observed, by far the greater number are foliated basic eruptives,—schists and gneisses. There are, however, some that are of undoubted sedimentary origin, but highly metamorphosed.

The general direction of foliation is a few degrees south of east, subject, of course, to many local changes.

Along Grand Lake the rock is a compact amphibolite [3] with a strike S. 78 degrees E. cut by numerous pegmatite dikes, having a strike N. 30 degrees W. and a dip 79 degrees W.. These dikes vary in width from three to twenty feet. Half way to the head of the lake is a dike [1] having a total width of eight feet, consisting of a central band of segregated quartz, six feet wide, cut by numerous thin sheets of biotite, which probably mark the planes of shearing. The quartz is bordered on either side by a band of orthoclase,' one foot in width. Between these bands of orthoclase and the neighboring amphibolite are narrow bands of schist [2]

One hundred feet south of the above point is a second dike having a similar strike and dip and a width of eighteen feet. A third narrow dike, containing small pockets of magnetite, is twenty-five feet south of the second. Only the first is distinguished by the segregation of the quartz.

The next outcrop observed was on the portage from the Nascaupee River. The rock, a biotite granite gneiss [4] having a strike N. 82 degrees E. is much weathered and split by the action of the frost, and marked by pockets of quartz, usually four or five inches in width.

Between this point and Lake Nipishish the underlying rock differs only in being more extremely crushed and foliated. The one exception is on Caribou Ridge, which is capped by a much altered gabbro. [6]

The first noticeable change in the character of the country rock is a Washkagama Lake, where a fine grained epidotic schist [7] was observed, having a dip 82 degrees W. and a strike S. 78 degrees E.

At Otter Lake a much foliated and weathered phyllite [8] was found. Strike N. 73 degrees E. and a dip of 16 degrees.

On the Babewendigash River seven miles east of Seal Lake is an exposure of highly metamorphosed ancient sedimentary rocks. The outcrop occurs at a height of four hundred feet above the river; and there is a well-marked stratification.

The lowest bed of a calcarous sericitic schist [9] is four feet thick and underlies a bed of schistose lime stone [10] six feet in thickness, which is in turn covered by a finely laminated phyllite, [11] ten feet thick. The whole is capped by thirty feet of quartzite, [12] which forms the top of a long ridge.

Owing to the strong weathering action this thickness of quartzite is doubtless much less than it was originally.

Forty-six miles above Seal Lake an exposure of phyllite was seen, the same in every respect as the one east of Seal Lake, just mentioned.

The general direction of foliation is S. 70 degrees E. and the dip 70 degrees. The higher hills west of Seal Lake are capped by a much altered gabbro [13] that has undergone considerable weathering.

Between the Nascaupee River and a few miles beyond Bibiquasin Lake the rock is quartzite, [14] considerably weathered and covered by drift. Bowlders of this quartzite were seen along the Nascaupee River long before the first outcrop was reached, showing the general direction of the glacial movement to have been to the southeast. From Bibiquasin Lake to Lake Kasheshebogamog the country is covered with much drift; the only exposures are on the steep hillsides. The rock being a coarse hornblende granite.

The western end of Kasheshebogamog Lake lies within the limit of the anorthosite [15] area, which extends from that point to Lake Michikamau, a direct distance of twenty miles and was the only anorthosite observed on the journey.

GLACIAL STRIAE

First portage opposite Red River S. 45 degrees E. On Caribou Ridge E. At Washkagama Lake S. 70 degrees E. Near Seal Lake N. 85 degrees E. At Wuchusk Nipi S. 75 degrees E. Thirty-two miles above Wuchusk Nipi S. 70 degrees E.

MICROSCOPICAL FEATURES OF THE ROCK SPECIMENS

By G. M. Richards, Columbia University 1—Pegmatite-Grand Lake. The specimen was taken from a pegmatite dike at its contact with an amphibolite. In the hand specimen it is an apparently pure orthoclase but in the thin section small scattered quartz grains are observed; as well as the alteration products, Kaolin and sericite.

The minerals at contact are quartz, biotite, magnetite and hornblende.

Both the quartz and orthoclase contain dust inclusions and crystallites, while the evidences of shearing and crushing are abundant.

2-Quartz Biotite Schist.

Contact between above dike and amphibolite. A coarse black rock carrying magnetite and pyrites in considerable quantities.

Under the microscope some of the biotite has a green coloration from decomposition and is surrounded by strong pleochroic halos.

Small grains of secondary pyroxene are numerous.

AMPHIBOLITE

3-Grand Lake.

A dark, compact rock, having a mottled appearance due to grains of plagioclase, and a green color in section.

Minerals present are hornblende, biotite, plagioclase, pyroxene, quartz and the alteration products from the feldspar.

The rock has been subjected to a strong crushing action, which has been resisted by only small portions of it. The spaces between the grains, which are intact, are filled with a confused mass of peripherally granulated minerals, in which strain shadows are very prominent.

The rock has been derived by dynamic metamorphism from a basic igneous rock.

4-Biotite Granite Gneiss.

Eighteen miles above mouth of Nascaupee River. A fine-grained rock of gneissic structure having a faint pink color.

Plagioclase, microcline and quartz are the predominating minerals, while biotite, titanite, epidote, apatite, zircon and garnet are present in smaller quantities.

There is also a small amount of hematite, pyroxene and sericite.

The rock, which is of a granitic composition, contains numerous crystallites and has been subjected to considerable strain and crushing, which has resulted in foliation.

5-Mica Granite Gneiss—Country Rock—near Caribou Ridge.

In the hand specimen the rock has the same appearance as No. 4, if anything, it is somewhat more compact.

The principal minerals are, plagioclase, biotite and microcline, with smaller quantities of quartz, iron oxide, pyroxene and garnet.

The feldspar is decomposed with the resulting formation of epidote, which is quite prominent. There are also numerous included crystals.

The rock has been greatly crushed and sheared, and is much finer than No. 4.

6—Cap of Caribou Ridge.

A hard compact rock of dark green color, having a mottled appearance, due to the presence of a white mineral.

Pyroxene, quartz and augite form the groundmass, as seen in section. There are a few small grains of magnetite,

The severe crushing to which the rock has been subjected has resulted in the conversion of the plagioclase into scapolite and also in the formation of zoisite by the characteristic alteration of the lime bearing silicate of the feldspar in conjunction with other constituents of the rock.

The light mineral is finely granulated and the whole is marked by uneven extinction.

The rock has probably been derived by dynamic metamorphism, from a coarse igneous rock like a gabbro.

7—Epidotic Sericitic Schist. Washkagama Lake.

A fine grained compact gray rock, of aggregate structure, consisting chiefly of quartz, plagioclase and biotite, and the alteration products epidote and sericite.

Under the microscope it is a confused mass of finely granulated minerals, with numerous included crystals.

The rock has undergone complete metamorphism and its origin is unknown.

8—Phyllite-Near Otter Lake.

A soft extremely fine grained gray rock, with a well developed schistose structure, carrying much magnetite, plagioclase, orthoclase and their alteration products.

The strain to which the rock has been subjected has resulted in a very fine lamination, and it is considerably weathered.

9—Calcarous Sericite Schist.—Seven Miles East of Seal Lake.

A dark compact rock, in which calcite and sericite predominate. Quartz is less plentiful. The results of shearing and pressure are very prominent and bring out the foliation, even in the calcite.

10—Schistose Limestone—Same location as No. 9.

A white rock having a peculiar mottled appearance due to the inclusions of decomposing biotite which project from the surrounding mass of calcite. There is some sericite present, also magnetite, resulting from the decomposition of the biotite.

The bent and metamorphosed condition of the calcite shows the shearing and crushing which the rock has undergone.

11—Phyllite—same location as No. 9.

A dark red, finely laminated rock consisting chiefly of decomposed biotite and feldspar, occasional quartz grains and sericite and much iron oxide.

The rock has been subjected to strong shearing force, producing a good example of schistose structure.

12—Quartzite—Same location as No. 9.

A compact rock of light red color, made up of uniformly rounded grains of quartz, and the feldspar with occasional grain of magnetite.

A fine siliceous material discolored by iron oxide, acts as a cement between the grains.

The quartz grains show secondary growth. 13—Altered Gabbro—Thirty-two Miles Above Wuchusk Nipi on Nascaupee River.

A coarse dark green rock whose principal constituents are pyroxene plagioclase and magnetite.

There is a slightly developed diabasic structure and the rock is much altered by weathering; the resultant product being chlorite.

14—Quartizite—Bibiquagin Lake.

Hard compact rock of light red color, cut in all directions by narrow veins of quartz, from microscope size to one-half an inch in width.

The grains of the constituent minerals, quartz, feldspar and magnetite have an angular brecciated appearance; showing uneven extinction and strong crushing effects.

The magnetite is somewhat decomposed, the resulting hematite filling the spaces between the quartz grains.

15—Anorthosite—Shore of Lake Michikamau.

A coarse grained rock of dark gray color, in which labradorite is the chief mineral. Magnetite and Kaolin are present in small quantities.

The labradorite contains inclusions of rutile and biotite and has a well-developed wedge structure and cross fracture due to the pressure and shearing which it has undergone.

It is also somewhat stained by the decomposition of the magnetite.

SOURCES OF INFORMATION

On the map of the portage route to Lake Michikamau; that lake, the Grand River and Groswater Bay are taken from the map accompanying the report of Mr. A. P. Low.

The location of the Susan and Beaver Rivers with their tributaries was obtained from Dillon Wallace's map in "The Lure of the Labrador Wild."

The instruments used were a Brunton Pocket Transit, a small taffrail log and an Aneroid Barometer. Distances on land were approximated by means of a pedometer and by rough triangulation.

THE END