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However, the intervening hour gave an opportunity to drape myself and clothes around the parlor stove, and as I discovered a local history, the time was not counted lost.

As I took up the task of searching out East Pubnico there were to be seen hints of blue in the upper regions of the air, and it looked as though something better was in store for the afternoon. Shortly the camera came on an ox cart and two boys, and we stopped to get acquainted. It turned out that their motive power was known as “Spark,” and there seems to be no doubt but that he is the live wire of the region, as I was reliably informed that he can make three miles an hour under favoring conditions.

At East Pubnico two ways were open: one through the nine mile woods, the other around the shore, some twenty-two miles, and as time was an object and my sailing directions did not show any stories connected with this portion of the shore, I picked the former. It proved to be nine miles without a house or clearing, or even a crossroad—one ox team, one light wagon, one bunch of stray cattle and a few partridges composed all the life I saw. It was a rather desolate region, some large burned tracts, but most of it given over to brush and small trees, with an occasional lake in the distance. It is said that deer are common along this road and moose occasional, but I did not have the good fortune to see any.