vegetation-for St. Pierre is almost literally built upon a rock. Big dogs attached to tiny carts take the place of horses. There are no sidewalks, and although there is an excellent pension and numerous cafes, there is no hotel.

In the streets you see the fishermen-a constant delight to an artist-with their blue jerseys, Basque caps, and big boots. In March and April, when the sailing vessels and steamships come out from Fecamp, Canale, and St. Malo, with ten or fifteen thousand fishermen, the scene changes to one of bustling activity. For a few weeks all these fishermen are ashore preparing their tackle or loading their fishing-vessels with bait and ice. Then the gaily attired gendarmes are liable to have their hands full, and the merchant is busy in his office until far into the night.

For the fourth time in its history St. Pierre, the capital of the St.

Pierre-Miquelon group of islands off the south coast of Newfoundland, was almost destroyed by fire in 1902.

Late on the night of November Ist the fire started, and before it could be checked the government buildings, including the Governor's house, the building occupied by the Ministry of Marine, the big Roman Catholic cathedral, the schools, the court-house, two or three of the larger cafes, many stores and private dwellings, were completely destroyed. Fortunately, no lives were lost this time. In the three other great fires, in 1865, in 1867, and in 1879, there were many fatalities.

It was in the early morning of an August day that the present writer and his son arrived at the island St. Pierre in the steamer that sailed from Valentia to Port aux Basques. (The steamer, by the way, afterward foundered in the Pacific.) Through the haze we dis

cerned the outlines of a couple of French ships of war, and the clouds hung low over the rocky island of Saint Peter the fisherman. The rising sun soon dispersed the fog and as a pretty picture met the eye as one would care to behold. It was like a bit of old France transported across the sea. Here was a tiny square like a grand place in Brittany or Artois, flanked on one side by the tiny Hotel de Ville, or town hall, on the other by the cathedral and presbytere. The white walls, mansard roofs, picturesque dormers, the presence of the tricolour and the French chatter in the tiny market-place, all emphasized the fact that we were on the sole remaining relic of the once mighty French domain extending from the mouth of the St. Lawrence to the mouth of the Mississippi, save a narrow stretch along the Atlantic coast. Official bulletins containing the latest in

telligence from the Old World were placarded on the town hall. The dapper French naval officers, the swaggering Breton sailor, and Amazonian French fishwives looked as if they had stepped out of an old-world picture.

A vivacious Canadian writer, Mrs. E. G. Randall, thus describes a visit to the island before the last great fire:

Nestling on the hillside lies the little French town, and on the quay were crowds of French people, chattering gaily, full of interest and curiosity in the strangers from the outside world. As we stepped upon the wharf two striking figures met our gaze. The first was a gorgeous creature in uniform of red and blue, trimmed with gold lace, and with a sword dangling at his side; this we thought must be the "gendarme." The other was in sharp contrast, in his long black robe and broad-brimmed hat. We had evi

dently been greeted by both Church and State.

Occasionally a Basque peasant marched solemnly along the quay in front of his ox-team and queer little Normandy cart. His garb of blue blouse and biretta, scarlet sash and gaily embroidered footwear lent a dash of colour to the scene.

We never weary of the quaint, narrow streets, where not even a sidewalk intervenes between the doorstep and the road. The little French windows, opening out like doors (our windows they call guillotine doors), are all ablaze with flowers of every hue; one almost forgets in looking on them that the island is for the most part a barren rock with scarcely a tree and only a few tiny vegetable gardens.

As we gain entrance into the houses we see how closely these people have clung to the traditions of their Normandy homes; here are the same "low-raftered interiors"

beautifully white, and the same high canopied beds and down coverlets in green and red, and, as if to further emphasize the old-time French accent with which our surroundings speak to us, we hear, as we drowsily prepare for bed, the roll of a drum; nearer and nearer it comes, until it thunders beneath our window, passes and grows faint in the distance. It is the "Tambour" on his nightly round, giving us to understand that it is ten o'clock, and time for lights to be put out.

Walking down from the town on the old "Savoyard" road one sees quaint picture after picture. There are women washing at the brooks which run continually down the hillsides. They wear white headdresses and kneel in little box-like contrivances on the edge of the stream; each is armed with a wooden mallet with which she hammers the wet garments. When

the clothes are cleansed the whitecapped women carry them up the hillside and spread them out to dry, as one of them naively explained, that they might have a sweet odour." Here the sun and the dew and the sea-breeze complete the whitening process.

As we near the top of the hill about which the road winds we see coming towards us the dark, bent figures of "faggot gatherers "; had these women stepped from some canvas while we were exploring the art galleries, we could not have been more startled, so picturesque were they in their white caps and short, full skirts, and bearing the bundles of faggots on their backs.

On our return we met dogs, three abreast, drawing little carts which were loaded with barrels of flour, etc., and at once it became the ambition of our lives to be drawn by dogs.

Very soon after this an opportunity presented itself for the gratification of our wishes; we found the experience full of excitement and conducive to hilarity, as the dogs are very independent and full of moods, and will turn and rend each other, or suddenly flop down for a nap, as the spirit may happen to move them; the remedy for these notions, we learned by observation, is to flourish your whip fiercely, and shout "Allez! Allez !"

Not one dull moment did we pass on this little island. If the day was damp and misty we enveloped ourselves in mackintoshes and went a-shopping, or if the tide were low we went down on the beach and watched the bare-legged fishermen wading after crabs, or stood by and saw the codfish being washed by yellow - tarpaulined, long - booted figures. The codfish cleaned at sea are here thrown in deep crates, through which the sea-water flows back and forth; the fish are then

stirred by the tarpaulined men with long poles until considered clean, then thrown on to the wharf with pitchforks and carted away to be piled in neat stacks.

On a bright day we return and see the cod spread out on the fields of round stones to dry, and watch them carefully turned by hands of laughing, chattering French peasants, who are happy now the sun is shining once more. Well might the sailors sing and the fisher-lads rejoice, for rarely indeed do such perfect days come to this northern coast; more often it is wrapped in mists, but even then it is beautiful. Especially would this place appeal to a marine artist.

The following day was sunny and calm, and we had the pleasure of seeing "Langlade," one of the three islands of Miquelon, with its beautiful natural arch in the rocks.

The 15th of August, the "fete of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin," arose brilliant and cloudless. At 1 o'clock p.m. we made our way to the cathedral, a large building with tasteful decorations on the interior, and dedicated to St. Peter, the fisherman saint. Between the immense chandeliers is suspended a fishing craft, significant of the life led by those bronzed sons of the sea, who come always to the cathedral before starting out on their expeditions to receive the blessing of the priest and to pray for a safe voyage.

The cathedral was filling rapidly, and we made haste to secure chairs, for which we paid one sou each, and took our places with the congregation. Every type of the French race was represented, from the uncorseted peasant with short, full skirt and white cap, to the gay Parisian in elegant toilet. The altars were profusely decorated with flowers, the contributions of the people. After the service was

ended the procession went forth from the cathedral; first in order marched the beadle, mace in hand; after him a priest, bearing aloft a crucifix, and on each side of the priest the two little altar boys in their purple robes and white lace surplices, carrying tall candles; after these, walking two by two in two long columns, came the rest of the procession, beginning with the children from the schools, the boys kept in file by monks; after them the girls, beside whom walked the nuns, who looked very beautiful, habited in blue gowns, with black about the head and shoulders, a white band about the brow, and a silver cross gleaming on each breast; next came the young girls from the orphan asylum, whom we judged were from eight to sixteen years of age. They were clad in the uniform of the asylum, namely, grey alpaca dresses, and the hair drawn close to the head in nets; this sombre dress, however, was trans

ALONG THE QUAY."

formed for the occasion by the long white veils which enveloped each one from head to foot.

After these came the maidens arrayed in pure white, from their long tulle veils, fastened to their hair with white flowers, to their dainty white kid slippers; these were elected to carry the image of the Virgin Mary; two by two they walked in two long columns, and between these columns there was a group of eight young girls bearing the image, while four more held the golden ropes attached to the burden. After a few paces these were relieved by others from the ranks, and these in turn by others, until each of these white-robed ones had borne the weight upon her shoulders; next in order came the choir boys in the scarlet cassocks and white surplices, who, with the monks and officiating dignitaries, were chanting as they slowly wound their way along the quay and up through the narrow streets.