Chapter IV: Part 4

Out on a coast island Captain William Bartlett, of Brigus, Newfoundland, kept a fishing station and a supply store. Captain Will is a famous Arctic navigator. He is one of the best known and most successful masters of the great sealing fleet. He is also a cod fisherman of renown and he is the father of Captain "Bob" Bartlett, master of explorer Peary's _Roosevelt_, and it was under Captain Will Bartlett's instruction that Captain "Bob" learned seamanship and navigation. Captain William Bartlett is as fine a man as ever trod a deck. He is just and honest to a degree, and he has a big generous heart.

Doctor Grenfell accepted the silver fox pelt, and as he steamed down the coast he ran his vessel in at Captain Bartlett's station. He had confidence in Captain Bartlett.

"Here's a silver fox skin that belongs to David Long's lads," said he, depositing the pelt on the counter. "I wish you'd take it, and do the best you can for David, Captain Will. I'll leave it with you."

Captain Bartlett shook the pelt out, and admired its lustrous beauty.

"It's a good one! David's lads were in luck when they caught _that_ fellow. I'll do the best I can with it," he promised.

"They'll take the pay in provisions and other necessaries," suggested Grenfell.

"All right," agreed Captain Will. "I'll send the goods over to them."

On his way to the southward a month later Doctor Grenfell again cast anchor at Big Bight. David Long and Mrs. Long, the two big lads, and all the little Longs, were as beaming and happy as any family could be in the whole wide world. Captain Bartlett's vessel had run in at Big Bight one day, and paid for the silver fox pelt in merchandise.

The cabin was literally packed with provisions. The family were well clothed. There was enough and to spare to keep them in affluence, as affluence goes down on The Labrador, for a whole year and longer. Need and poverty were vanished. Captain Will had, indeed, done well with the silver fox pelt.

These are stories of life on The Labrador as Doctor Grenfell found it. From the day he reached the coast and every day since his heart has ached with the troubles and poverty existing among the liveyeres. He has been thrilled again and again by incidents of heroic struggle and sacrifice among them. He has done a vast deal to make them more comfortable and happy, as in the case of David Long. Still, in spite of it all, there are cases of desperate poverty and suffering there, and doubtless will always be.

In every city and town and village of our great and prosperous country people throw away clothing and many things that would help to make the lives of the Longs and the hundreds of other liveyeres of the coast who are toiling for bare existence easier to endure. Enough is wasted every year, indeed, in any one of our cities to make the whole population of Labrador happy and comfortable. And there's the pity. If Grenfell could _only_ be given _some_ of this waste to take to them!

From the beginning this thought troubled Doctor Grenfell. And in winter when the ice shuts the whole coast off from the rest of the world, he turned his attention to efforts to secure the help of good people the world over in his work. Making others happy is the greatest happiness that any one can experience, and Grenfell wished others to share his happiness with him. Nearly every winter for many years he has lectured in the United States and Canada and Great Britain with this in view. The Grenfell Association was organized with headquarters in New York, where money and donations of clothing and other necessaries might be sent.[B]

As we shall see, many great things have been accomplished by Doctor Grenfell and this Association, organized by his friends several years ago. Every year a great many boxes and barrels of clothing go to him down on The Labrador, filled with good things for the needy ones. Boys and girls, as well as men and women, send warm things for winter. Not only clothing, but now and again toys for the Wee Tots find their way into the boxes. Just like other children the world over, the Wee Tots of The Labrador like toys to play with and they are made joyous with toys discarded by the over-supplied youngsters of our land.

Of course there are foolish people who send useless things too. Scattered through the boxes are now and again found evening clothes for men and women, silk top hats, flimsy little women's bonnets, dancing pumps, and even crepe-de-chene nighties. These serve as playthings for the grown-ups, many of whom, especially the Indians and Eskimos, are quite childlike with gimcracks. I recall once seeing an Eskimo parading around on a warm day in the glory of a full dress coat and silk hat, the coat drawn on over his ordinary clothing. He was the envy of his friends.

While Grenfell dispensed medical and surgical treatment, and at the same time did what he could for the needy, he also turned his attention to an attack upon the truck system. This system of barter was responsible for the depths of poverty in which he found the liveyeres. He was mightily wrought up against it, as well he might have been, and still is, and he laid plans at once to relieve the liveyeres and northern Newfoundlanders from its grip.

This was a great undertaking. It was a stroke for freedom, for the truck system, as we have seen, is simply a species of slavery. He realized that in attacking it he was to create powerful enemies who would do their utmost to injure him and interfere with his work. Some of these men he knew would go to any length to drive him off The Labrador. It required courage, but Grenfell was never lacking in courage. He rolled up his sleeves and went at it. He always did things openly and fearlessly, first satisfying himself he was right.

FOOTNOTES:

[B] The address of the Grenfell Association is 156 Fifth Avenue, New York.

XIII

SKIPPER TOM'S COD TRAP

Skipper Tom lived, and for aught I know still lives, at Red Bay, a little settlement on the Straits of Belle Isle, some sixty miles to the westward of Battle Harbor.

Along the southern coast of Labrador the cabins are much closer together than on the east coast, and there are some small settlements in the bays and harbors, with snug little painted cottages.

Red Bay, where Skipper Tom lived, is one of these settlements. It boasts a neat little Methodist chapel, built by the fishermen and trappers from lumber cut in the near-by forest, and laboriously sawn into boards with the pit saw.

Skipper Tom lived in one of the snuggest and coziest of the cottages. I remember the cottage and I remember Skipper Tom well. I happened into the settlement one evening directly ahead of a winter blizzard, and Skipper Tom and his good family opened their little home to me and sheltered me with a hospitable cordial welcome for three days, until the weather cleared and the dogs could travel again and I pushed forward on my journey.

Skipper Tom stood an inch or two above six feet in his moccasins. He was a broad-shouldered, strong-limbed man of the wilderness and the sea. His face was kindly and gentle, but at the same time reflected firmness, strength and thoughtfulness. When he spoke you were sure to listen, for there was always the conviction that he was about to utter some word of wisdom, or tell you something of importance. The moment you looked at him and heard his voice you said to yourself: "Here is a man upon whom I can rely and in whom I can place absolute confidence."

If Skipper Tom promised to do anything, he did it, unless Providence intervened. If he said he would not do a thing, he would not do it, and you could depend on it. He was a man of his word. That was Skipper Tom--big, straight spoken, and as square as any man that ever lived. That is what his neighbors said of him, and that is the way Doctor Grenfell found him.

Now and again the Methodist missionary visited Red Bay in his circuit of the settlements, and when he came he made his headquarters in the home of Skipper Tom. On the occasion of these visits he conducted services in the chapel on Sunday, and on week days visited every home in Red Bay. Skipper Tom was class leader, and looked after the religious welfare of the little community, presiding over his class in the chapel, on the great majority of Sundays, when the missionary was engaged elsewhere.

The people looked up to Skipper Tom. The folk of Red Bay, like most people who live much in the open and close to nature, have a deep religious reverence and a wholesome fear of God. As their class leader Skipper Tom guided them in their worship, and they looked upon him as an example of upright living. So it was that he had a great burden of responsibility, with the morals of the community thrust upon him.

In one respect Skipper Tom was fortunate. He did not inherit a debt, and all his life he had kept free from the truck system under which his neighbors toiled hopelessly, year in and year out.

He had, in one way or another, picked up enough education to read and write and figure. He could read and interpret his Bible and he could calculate his accounts. He knew that two times two make four. If he sold two hundred quintals[C] of fish at $2.25 a quintal, he knew that $450.00 were due him. No trader had a mortgage upon the product of _his_ labor, as they had upon that of his neighbors, and he was free to sell his fur and fish to whoever would pay him the highest price.

To be sure there were seasons when Skipper Tom was hard put to it to make ends meet, and a scant diet and a good many hardships fell to his lot and to the lot of his family. And when he had enough and his neighbors were in need, he denied himself to see others through, and even pinched himself to do it.

But he saved bit by bit until, at the age of forty-five, he was able to purchase a cod trap, which was valued at about $400.00. The purchase of this cod trap had been the ambition of his life and we can imagine his joy when finally the day came that brought it to him. It made more certain his catch of cod, and therefore lessened the possibility of winters of privation.

It is interesting to know how the fishermen of The Labrador catch cod. It may be worth while also to explain that when the Labradorman or Newfoundlander speaks of "fish" he means cod in his vocabulary. A trout is a trout, a salmon is a salmon and a caplin is a caplin, but a cod is a fish. He never thinks of anything as fish but cod.

Early in the season, directly the ice breaks up, a little fish called the caplin, which is about the size of a smelt, runs inshore in great schools of countless millions, to spawn. I have seen them lying in windrows along the shore where the receding tide had left them high and dry upon the land. This is a great time for the dogs, which feast upon them and grow fat. It is a great time also for the cod, which feed on the caplin, and for the fishermen who catch the cod. Cod follow the caplin schools, and this is the season when the fisherman, if he is so fortunate as to own a trap, reaps his greatest harvest.

The trap is a net with four sides and a bottom, but no top. It is like a great room without a ceiling. On one side is a door or opening. The trap is submerged a hundred yards or so from shore, at a point where the caplin, with the cod at their heels, are likely to run in. A net attached to the trap at the center of the door is stretched to the nearest shore.

Like a flock of geese that follows the old gander cod follow their leaders. When the leaders pilot the school in close to shore in pursuit of the caplin, they encounter the obstructing net, then follow along its side with the purpose of going around it. This leads them into the trap. Once into the trap they remain there until the fishermen haul their catch.

The fisherman who owns no trap must rely upon the hook and line. Though sometimes hook and line fishermen meet with good fortune, the results are much less certain than with the traps and the work much slower and vastly more difficult.

When the water is not too deep jigging with unbaited hooks proves successful when fish are plentiful. Two large hooks fastened back to back, with lead to act as a sinker, serve the purpose. This double hook at the end of the line is dropped over the side of the boat and lowered until it touches bottom. Then it is raised about three feet, and from this point "jigged," or raised and lowered continuously until taken by a cod.

In deep water, however, bait is necessary and the squid is a favorite bait. A squid is a baby octopus, or "devil fish." The squid is caught by jigging up and down a lead weight filled with wire spikes and painted bright red. It seizes the weight with its tentacles. When raised into the boat it releases its hold and squirts a small stream of black inky fluid. In the water, when attacked, this inky fluid discolors the water and screens it from its enemy.

The octopus grows to immense size, with many long arms. Two Newfoundlanders were once fishing in an open boat, when an octopus attacked the boat, reaching for it with two enormous arms, with the purpose of dragging it down. One of the fishermen seized an ax that lay handy in the boat and chopped the arms off. The octopus sank and all the sea about was made black with its screen of ink. The sections of arms cut off were nineteen feet in length. They are still on exhibition in the St. Johns Museum, where I have seen them many times. Shortly afterward a dead octopus was found, measuring, with tentacles spread, forty feet over all. It was not, however, the same octopus which attacked the fishermen, for that must have been much larger.

We can understand, then, how much Skipper Tom's cod trap meant to him. We can visualize his pleasure, and share his joy. The trap was, to a large extent, insurance against privation and hardship. It was his reward for the self-denial of himself and his family for years, and represented his life's savings.

When at last the ice cleared from his fishing place and the trap was set, there was no prouder or happier man on The Labrador than Skipper Tom. The trap was in the water when the _Princess May_, one Saturday afternoon, steamed into Red Bay and Doctor Grenfell accepted the hospitable invitation of Skipper Tom to spend the night at his home.

It was still early in the season and icebergs were plentiful enough, as, indeed, they are the whole summer long. They are always a menace to cod traps, for should a berg drift against a trap, that will be the end of the trap forever. Fishermen watch their traps closely, and if an iceberg comes so near as to threaten it the trap must be removed to save it. A little lack of watchfulness leads to ruin.

"The trap's well set," said Skipper Tom, when Doctor Grenfell inquired concerning it. "The ice is keepin' clear, but I watches close."

"What are the signs of fish?" asked the Doctor.

"Fine!" said Skipper Tom. "The signs be _wonderful_ fine."

"I hope you'll have a big year."

"There's a promise of un," Skipper Tom grinned happily. "The trap's sure to do fine for us."

But nobody knows from one day to another what will happen on The Labrador.

According to habit Skipper Tom was up bright and early on Sunday morning and went for a look at the trap. When presently he returned to join Doctor Grenfell at breakfast he was plainly worried.

"There's a berg driftin' down on the trap. We'll have to take her in," he announced.

"But 'tis Sunday," exclaimed his wife. "You'll never be workin' on Sunday."

"Aye, 'tis Sunday and 'tis against my principles to fish on the Sabbath day. I never did before, but 'tis to save our cod trap now. The lads and I'll not fish. We'll just haul the trap."

"The Lard'll forgive _that, what_ever," agreed his wife.

Skipper Tom went out when he had eaten, but it was not long until he returned.

"I'm not goin' to haul the trap today," he said quietly and decisively. "There are those in this harbor," he added, turning to Doctor Grenfell, "who would say, if I hauled that trap, that 'twould be no worse for them to fish on Sunday than for me to haul my trap. Then they'd go fishin' Sundays the same as other days, and none of un would keep Sunday any more as a day of rest, as the Lard intends us to keep un, and has told us in His own words we must keep un. I'll not haul the trap this day, though 'tis sore hard to lose un."

For a principle, and because he was well aware of his influence upon the folk of the settlement, Skipper Tom had made his decision to sacrifice his cod trap and the earnings of his lifetime. His conscience told him it would be wrong to do a thing that might lead others to do wrong. When our conscience tells us it is wrong to do a thing, it is wrong for us to do it. Conscience is the voice of God. If we disobey our conscience God will soon cease to speak to us through it. That is the way every criminal in the world began his downward career. He disobeyed his conscience, and continued to disobey it until he no longer heard it.

Skipper Tom never disobeyed his conscience. Now the temptation was strong. His whole life's savings were threatened to be swept away. There was still time to save the trap.

But Skipper Tom was strong. He turned his back upon the cod trap and the iceberg and temptation, and as he and Doctor Grenfell climbed the hill to the chapel he greeted his neighbors calmly and cheerily.

Every eye in Red Bay was on Skipper Tom that day. Every person knew of the cod trap and its danger, and all that it meant to Skipper Tom, and the temptation Skipper Tom was facing; but from all outward appearance he had dismissed the cod trap and the iceberg from his mind.

When dusk fell that night the iceberg was almost upon the cod trap.

FOOTNOTES:

[C] Pronounced kentel in Labrador; 112 pounds.

XIV

THE SAVING OF RED BAY

At an early hour on Sunday evening Skipper Tom went to his bed as usual, and it is quite probable that within a period of ten minutes after his head rested upon his pillow he was sleeping peacefully. There was nothing else to do. He had no doubt that his cod trap was lying under the iceberg a hopeless wreck.

Well, what of it? In any case he had acted as his conscience had him act. He knew that there were those who would say that his conscience was over-sensitive. Perhaps it was, but it was _his_ conscience, not theirs. He was class leader in the chapel. He never forgot that. And he was the leading citizen of the settlement. At whatever cost, he must needs prove a good example to his neighbors in his deeds. Worry would not help the case in the least. Too much of it would incapacitate him. He had lived forty-four years without a cod trap, and he had not starved, and he could finish his days without one.

"The Lard'll take care of us," Skipper Tom often said when they were in a tight pinch, but he always added, "if we does our best to make the best of things and look after ourselves and the things the Lard gives us to do with. He calls on us to do that."

Though Skipper Tom could scarce see how his trap might have escaped destruction he had no intention of resting upon that supposition and perhaps he still entertained a lingering hope that it had escaped. There is no doubt he prayed for its preservation, and he had strong faith in prayer. At any rate, at half past eleven o'clock that night he was up and dressed, and routed his two sons out of their beds. At the stroke of midnight, waiting a tick longer perhaps, to be quite sure that Sunday had gone and Monday morning had arrived, he and his sons pushed out in their big boat.

Skipper Tom would not be doing his best if he did not make certain of what had actually happened to the cod trap. Every one in Red Bay said it had been destroyed, and no doubt of that. But no one knew for a certainty, and there _might_ have been an intervention of Divine Providence.

"The Lard helped us to get that trap," said Skipper Tom, "and 'tis hard to believe he'll take un away from us so soon, for I tried not to be vain about un, only just a bit proud of un and glad I has un. If He's took un from me I'll know 'twere to try my faith, and I'll never complain."

Down they rowed toward the iceberg, whose polished surface gleamed white in the starlight.

"She's right over where the trap were set! The trap's gone," said one of the sons.

"I'm doubtin'," Skipper Tom was measuring the distance critically with his eye.

"The trap's tore to pieces," insisted the son with discouragement in his voice.

"The berg's to the lee'ard of she," declared Skipper Tom finally.

"Tis too close t' shore."

"'Tis to the lee'ard!"

"Is you sure, now, Pop?"

"The trap's safe and sound! The berg _is_ t' the lee'ard!"

Tom was right. A shift of tide had come at the right moment to save the trap.

"The Lard is good to us," breathed Skipper Tom. "He've saved our trap! He always takes care of them that does what they feels is right. We'll thank the Lard, lads."

In the trap was a fine haul of cod, and when they had removed the fish the trap was transferred to a new position where it would be quite safe until the menacing iceberg had drifted away.

There were seventeen families living in Red Bay. As settlements go, down on The Labrador, seventeen cabins, each housing a family, is deemed a pretty good sized place.

At Red Bay, as elsewhere on the coast, bad seasons for fishing came now and again. These occur when the ice holds inshore so long that the best run of cod has passed before the men can get at them; or because for some unexplained reason the cod do not appear at all along certain sections of the coast. When two bad seasons come in succession, starvation looms on the horizon.

Seasons when the ice held in, Skipper Tom could not set his cod trap. When this happened he was as badly off as any of his neighbors. In a season when there were no fish to catch, it goes without saying that his trap brought him no harvest. Fishing and trapping is a gamble at best, and Skipper Tom, like his neighbors, had to take his chance, and sometimes lost. If he accumulated anything in the good seasons, he used his accumulation to assist the needy ones when the bad seasons came, and, in the end, though he kept out of debt, he could not get ahead, try as he would.

The seasons of 1904 and 1905 were both poor seasons, and when, in the fall of 1905, Doctor Grenfell's vessel anchored in Red Bay Harbor he found that several of the seventeen families had packed their belongings and were expectantly awaiting his arrival in the hope that he would take them to some place where they might find better opportunities. They were destitute and desperate.

There was nowhere to take them where their condition would be better. Grenfell, already aware of their desperate poverty, had been giving the problem much consideration. The truck system was directly responsible for the conditions at Red Bay and for similar conditions at every other harbor along the coast. Something had to be done, and done at once.

With the assistance of Skipper Tom and one or two others, Doctor Grenfell called a meeting of the people of the settlement that evening, to talk the matter over. The men and women were despondent and discouraged, but nearly all of them believed they could get on well enough if they could sell their fish and fur at a fair valuation, and could buy their supplies at reasonable prices.

All of them declared they could no longer subsist at Red Bay upon the restricted outfits allowed them by the traders, which amounted to little or nothing when the fishing failed. They preferred to go somewhere else and try their luck where perhaps the traders would be more liberal. If they remained at Red Bay under the old conditions they would all starve, and they might as well starve somewhere else.

Doctor Grenfell then suggested his plan. It was this. They would form a company. They would open a store for themselves. Through the store their furs and fish would be sent to market and they would get just as big a price for their products as the traders got. They would buy the store supplies at wholesale just as cheaply as the traders could buy them. They would elect one of their number, who could keep accounts, to be storekeeper. They would buy the things they needed from the store at a reasonable price, and at the end of the year each would be credited with his share of the profits. In other words, they would organize a co-operative store and trading system and be their own traders and storekeepers.

This meant breaking off from the traders with whom they had always dealt and all hope of ever securing advance of supplies from them again. It was a hazardous venture for the fishermen to make. They did not understand business, but they were desperate and ready for any chance that offered relief, and in the end they decided to do as Doctor Grenfell suggested.

Each man was to have a certain number of shares of stock in the new enterprise. The store would be supplied at once, and each family would be able to get from it what was needed to live upon during the winter. Any fish they might have on hand would be turned over to the store, credited as cash, and sent to market at once, in a schooner to be chartered for the purpose and this schooner would bring back to Red Bay the winter's supplies.

A canvass then was made with the result that among the seventeen families the entire assets available for purchasing supplies amounted to but eighty-five dollars. This was little better than nothing.

Doctor Grenfell had faith in Skipper Tom and the others. They were honest and hard-working folk. He knew that all they required was an opportunity to make good. He was determined to give them the opportunity, and he announced, without hesitation, that he would personally lend them enough to pay for the first cargo and establish the enterprise. Can any one wonder that the people love Grenfell? He was the one man in the whole world that would have done this, or who had the courage to do it. He knew well enough that he was calling down upon his own head the wrath of the traders.

The schooner was chartered, the store was stocked and opened, and there was enough to keep the people well-fed, well-clothed, happy and comfortable through the first year.

In the beginning there were some of the men who were actually afraid to have it known they were interested in the store, such was the fear with which the traders had ruled them. They were so timid, indeed, about the whole matter that they requested no sign designating the building as a store be placed upon it. That, they declared, would make the traders angry, and no one knew to what lengths these former slaveholders might go to have revenge upon them. It is no easy matter to shake oneself free from the traditions of generations and it was hard for these trappers and fishermen to realize that they were freed from their ancient bondage. But Doctor Grenfell fears no man, and, with his usual aggressiveness, he nailed upon the front of the store a big sign, reading:

RED BAY CO-OPERATIVE STORE.

It was during the winter of 1905-1906 and ten years after the launching of the enterprise and the opening of the store, that I drove into Red Bay with a train of dogs one cold afternoon. Skipper Tom was my host, and after we had a cheery cup of tea, he said:

"Come out. I wants to show you something."

He led me a little way down from his cottage to the store, and pointing up at the big bold sign, which Grenfell had nailed there, he announced proudly:

"'Tis _our_ co-operative store, the first on the whole coast. Doctor Grenfell starts un for us."

Then after a pause:

"Doctor Grenfell be a wonderful man! He be a man of God."

As expected, there was a furore among the little traders when the news was spread that a co-operative store had been opened in Red Bay. The big Newfoundland traders and merchants were heartily in favor of it, and even stood ready to give the experiment their support.

But the little traders who had dealt with the Red Bay settlement for so long, and had bled the people and grown fat upon their labors, were bitterly hostile. They began a campaign of defamation against Doctor Grenfell and his whole field of work. They questioned his honesty, and criticised the conduct of his hospitals. They even enlisted the support of a Newfoundland paper in their opposition to him. They did everything in their power to drive him from the coast, so that they would have the field again in their own greedy hands. It was a dastardly exhibition of selfishness, but there are people in the world who will sell their own souls for profit.

Grenfell went on about his business of making people happier. He was in the right. If the traders would fight he would give it to them. He was never a quitter. He was the same Grenfell that beat up the big boy at school, years before. He was going to have his way about it, and do what he went to Labrador to do. He was going to do more. He was determined now to improve the trading conditions of the people of Labrador and northern Newfoundland, as well as to heal their sick.

From the day the co-operative store was opened in Red Bay not one fish and not one pelt of fur has ever gone to market from that harbor through a trader. The store has handled everything and it has prospered and the people have prospered beyond all expectation. Every one at Red Bay lives comfortably now. The debt to Doctor Grenfell was long since paid and cancelled. And it is characteristic of him that he would not accept one cent of interest. Shares of stock in the store, originally issued at five dollars a share, are now worth one hundred and four dollars a share, the difference being represented by profits that have not been withdrawn. Every share is owned by the people of the prosperous little settlement.

Up and down the Labrador coast and in northern Newfoundland nine co-operative stores have been established by Doctor Grenfell since that autumn evening when he met the Red Bay folk in conference and they voted to stake their all, even their life, in the venture that proved so successful. Two or three of the stores had to discontinue because the people in the localities where they were placed lived so far apart that there were not enough of them to make a store successful.

Every one of these stores was a great venture to the people who cast their lot with it. True they had little in money, but the stake of their venture was literally in each case their life. The man who never ventures never succeeds. Opportunity often comes to us in the form of a venture. Sometimes, it is a desperate venture too.

Doctor Grenfell had to fight the traders all along the line. They even had the Government of Newfoundland appoint a Commission to inquire into the operation of the Missions as a "menace to honest trade." A menace to honest trade! Think of it!

The result of the investigation proved that Grenfell and his mission was doing a big self-sacrificing work, and the finest kind of work to help the poor folk, and were doing it at a great cost and at no profit to the mission. So down went the traders in defeat.

The fellow that's right is the fellow that wins in the end. The fellow that's wrong is the fellow that is going to get the worst of it at the proper time. Grenfell only tried to help others. He never reaped a penny of personal gain. He always came out on top.

It's a good thing to be a scrapper sometimes, but if you're a scrapper be a good one. Grenfell is a scrapper when it is necessary, and when he has to scrap he goes at it with the best that's in him. He never does things half way. He never was a quitter. When he starts out to do anything he does it.

XV

A LAD OF THE NORTH

The needs of the children attracted Dr. Grenfell's attention from the beginning. A great many of them were neglected because the parents were too poor to provide for them properly. Those who were orphaned were thrown upon the care of their neighbors, and though the neighbors were willing they were usually too poor to take upon themselves this added burden.

There were no schools save those conducted by the Brethren of the Moravian missions among the Eskimos to the northward, and these were Eskimo schools where the people were taught to read and write in their own strange language, and to keep their accounts. But for the English speaking folk south of the Eskimo coast no provision for schools had ever been made.

The hospitals were overflowing with the sick or injured, and there was no room for children, unless they were in need of medical or surgical attention. There was great need of a home for the orphans where they would be cared for and receive motherly training and attention and could go to school.

Dr. Grenfell had thought about this a great deal. He had made the best arrangements possible for the actually destitute little ones by finding more or less comfortable homes for them, and seeking contributions from generous folk in the United States, Canada and Great Britain to pay for their expense.

But it was not, perhaps, until Pomiuk, a little Eskimo boy, came under his care that he finally decided that the establishment of a children's home could no longer be delayed.

Pomiuk's home was in the far north of Labrador, where no trees grow, and where the seasons are quite as frigid as those of northern Greenland. In summer he lived with his father and mother in a skin tent, or tupek, and in winter in a snow igloo, or iglooweuk.

Pomiuk's mother cooked the food over the usual stone lamp, which also served to heat their igloo in winter. This lamp, which was referred to in an earlier chapter, and described as a hollowed stone in the form of a half moon, was an exceedingly crude affair, measuring eighteen inches long on its straight side and nine inches broad at its widest part. When it was filled with oil squeezed from a piece of seal blubber, the blubber was suspended over it at the back that the heat, when the wick of moss was lighted, would cause the blubber oil to continue to drip and keep the lamp supplied with oil. The lamp gave forth a smoky, yellow flame. This was the only fireside that little Pomiuk knew. You and I would not think it a very cheerful one, perhaps, but Pomiuk was accustomed to cold and he looked upon it as quite comfortable and cheerful enough.

Ka-i-a-chou-ouk, Pomiuk's father, was a hunter and fisherman, as are all the Eskimos. He moved his tupek in summer, or built his igloo of blocks of snow in winter, wherever hunting and fishing were the best, but always close to the sea.

Here, under the shadow of mighty cliffs and towering, rugged mountains, by the side of the great water, Pomiuk was born and grew into young boyhood, and played and climbed among the mountain crags or along the ocean shore with other boys. He loved the rugged, naked mountains, they stood so firm and solid! No storm or gale could ever make them afraid, or weaken them. Always they were the same, towering high into the heavens, untrod and unchanged by man, just as they had stood facing the arctic storms through untold ages.

From the high places he could look out over the sea, where icebergs glistened in the sunshine, and sometimes he could see the sail of a fishing schooner that had come out of the mysterious places beyond the horizon. He loved the sea. Day and night in summer the sound of surf pounding ceaselessly upon the cliffs was in his ears. It was music to him, and his lullaby by night.

But he loved the sea no less in winter when it lay frozen and silent and white. As far as his vision reached toward the rising sun, the endless plain of ice stretched away to the misty place where the ice and sky met. Pomiuk thought it would be a fine adventure, some night, when he was grown to be a man and a great hunter, to take the dogs and komatik and drive out over the ice to the place from which the sun rose, and be there in the morning to meet him. He had no doubt the sun rose out of a hole in the ice, and it did not seem so far away.

Pomiuk's world was filled with beautiful and wonderful things. He loved the bright flowers that bloomed under the cliffs when the winter snows were gone, and the brilliant colors that lighted the sky and mountains and sea, when the sun set of evenings. He loved the mists, and the mighty storms that sent the sea rolling in upon the cliffs in summer. He never ceased to marvel at the aurora borealis, which by night flashed over the heavens in wondrous streams of fire and lighted the darkened world. His father told him the aurora borealis was the spirits of their departed people dancing in the sky. He learned the ways of the wild things in sea and on land and never tired of following the tracks of beasts in the snow, or of watching the seals sunning themselves on rocks or playing about in the water.

The big wolf dogs were his special delight. His father kept nine of them, and many an exciting ride Pomiuk had behind them when his father took him on the komatik to hunt seals or to look at fox traps, or to visit the Trading Post.

When he was a wee lad his father made for him a small dog whip of braided walrus hide. This was Pomiuk's favorite possession. He practiced wielding it, until he became so expert he could flip a pebble no larger than a marble with the tip end of the long lash; and he could snap and crack the lash with a report like a pistol shot.

As he grew older and stronger he practiced with his father's whip, until he became quite as expert with that as with his own smaller one. This big whip had a wooden handle ten inches in length, and a supple lash of braided walrus hide thirty-five feet long. The lash was about an inch in diameter where it joined the handle, tapering to a thin tip at the end.

One summer day, when Pomiuk was ten years of age, a strange ship dropped anchor off the rocky shore where Pomiuk's father and several other Eskimo families had pitched their tupeks, while they fished in the sea near by for cod or hunted seals. A boat was launched from the ship, and as it came toward the shore all of the excited Eskimos from the tupeks, men, women and children, and among them Pomiuk, ran down to the landing place to greet the visitors, and as they ran every one shouted, "Kablunak! Kablunak!" which meant, "Stranger! Stranger!"

Some white men and an Eskimo stepped out of the boat, and in the hospitable, kindly manner of the Eskimo Pomiuk's father and Pomiuk and their friends greeted the strangers with handshakes and cheerful laughter, and said "Oksunae" to each as he shook his hand, which is the Eskimo greeting, and means "Be strong."

The Eskimo that came with the ship was from an Eskimo settlement called Karwalla, in Hamilton Inlet, on the east of Labrador, but a long way to the south of Nachvak Bay where Pomiuk's people lived. He could speak English as well as Eskimo, and acted as interpreter for the strangers.

This Eskimo explained that the white men had come from America to invite some of the Labrador Eskimos to go to America to see their country. People from all the nations of the world, he said, were to gather there to meet each other and to get acquainted. They were to bring strange and wonderful things with them, that the people of each nation might see how the people of other nations made and used their things, and how they lived. They wished the Labrador Eskimos to come and show how they dressed their skins and made their skin clothing and skin boats, and to bring with them dogs and sledges, and harpoons and other implements of the hunt.

The white men promised it would be a most wonderful experience for those that went. They agreed to take them and all their things on the ship and after the big affair in America was over bring them back to their homes, and give them enough to make them all rich for the rest of their lives.

The Eskimos were naturally quite excited with the glowing descriptions, the opportunity to travel far into new lands, and the prospect of wealth and happiness offered them when they again returned to their Labrador homes. Pomiuk and his mother were eager for the journey, but his father did not care to leave the land and the life he knew. He decided that he had best remain in Labrador and hunt; but he agreed that Pomiuk's mother might go to make skin boots and clothing, and Pomiuk might go with her and take the long dog whip to show how well he could use it.

And so one day Pomiuk and his mother said goodbye to his father, and with several other Eskimos sailed away to the United States, destined to take their place as exhibits at the great World's Fair in Chicago.

The suffering of the Eskimos in the strange land to which they were taken was terrible. In Labrador they lived in the open, breathing God's fresh air. In Chicago they were housed in close and often poorly ventilated quarters. The heat was unbearable, and through all the long hours of day and night when they were on exhibition they were compelled to wear their heavy winter skin or fur clothing. They were unaccustomed to the food. Some of them died, and the white men buried them with little more thought or ceremony than was given those of their dogs that died.

Pomiuk, in spite of his suffering, kept his spirits. He loved to wield his long dog whip. It was his pride. Visitors at the fair pitched nickles and dimes into the enclosure where the Eskimos and their exhibits were kept. Pomiuk with the tip of his thirty-five foot lash would clip the coins, and laugh with delight, for every coin he clipped was to be his. He was the life of the Eskimo exhibit. Visitors could always distinguish his ringing laugh. He was always smiling.

The white men who had induced the Eskimos to leave their homes failed to keep their promise when the fair closed. The poor Eskimos were abandoned in a practically penniless condition and no means was provided to return them to their homes. To add to the distress of Pomiuk's mother, Pomiuk fell and injured his hip. Proper surgical treatment was not supplied, the injury, because of this neglect, did not heal, and Pomiuk could no longer run about or walk or even stand upon his feet.

Those of the Eskimos who survived the heat and unaccustomed climate, in some manner, God alone knows how, found their way to Newfoundland. Pomiuk, in his mother's care, was among them. The hospitality of big hearted fishermen of Newfoundland, who sheltered and fed the Eskimos in their cabins, kept them through the winter. It was a period of intense suffering for poor little Pomiuk, whose hip constantly grew worse.

When summer came again, Doctor Frederick Cook, the explorer, bound to the Arctic on an exploring expedition, heard of the stranded Eskimos, and carried some of them to their Labrador homes on his ship; and when the schooners of the great fishing fleets sailed north, kindly skippers made room aboard their little craft for others of the destitute Eskimos. Thus Pomiuk, once so active and happy, now a helpless cripple, found his way back on a fishing schooner to Labrador.

We can understand, perhaps, the joy and hope with which Pomiuk looked again upon the rock-bound coast that he loved so well. On _these_ shores he had lived care-free and happy and full of bounding health until the deceitful white men had lured him away. He had no doubt that once again in his own native land and among his own people in old familiar surroundings, he would soon get well and be as strong as ever he had been to run over the rocks and to help his father with the dogs and traps and at the fishing.

Pomiuk could scarcely wait to meet his father. He laughed and chattered eagerly of the good times he and his father would have together. He was deeply attached to his father who had always been kind and good to him, and who loved him better, even, than his mother loved him.

Pomiuk's heart beat high, when at last, one day, the vessel drew into the narrow channel that leads between high cliffs into Nachvak Bay. He looked up at the rocky walls towering two thousand feet above him on either side. They were as firm and unchanging as always. He loved them, and his eyes filled with happy tears. Just beyond, at the other end of the channel, lay the broad bay and the white buildings of the Hudson's Bay Company's trading post, where his father used to bring him sometimes with the dogs in winter or in the boat in summer. What fine times he and his father had on those excursions! And somewhere, back there, camped in his tupek, was his father. What a surprise his coming would be to his father!

Pomiuk was carried ashore at the Post. Eskimos camped near-by crowded down to greet him and his mother and the other wanderers who had returned with them. It would be a short journey now in the boat to his father's fishing place and his own dear home in their snug tupek. What a lot of things he had to tell his father! And at home, with his father's help he would soon be well and strong again.

Then he heard some one say his father was dead. Dazed with grief he was taken to one of the Eskimo tupeks where he was to make his home. All that day and for days afterward, days of deep, unspoken sorrow, the thought that he would never again hear his father's dear voice was in his mind and forcing itself upon him. The world had grown suddenly dark for the crippled boy. All of his fine plans were vanished.

One day late that fall Dr. Grenfell found Pomiuk lying helpless and naked upon the rocks near the tupek of the Eskimo who had taken him in. The little lad was carried aboard the hospital ship. He was washed and his diseased hip dressed, he was given clean warm clothing to wear, and altogether he was made more comfortable than he had been in many months. Then, with Pomiuk as a patient on board, the ship steamed away.

Thus Pomiuk bade goodbye to his home, to the towering cliffs and rugged sturdy mountains that he loved so well, and to his people. The dear days when he was so jolly and happy in health were only a memory, though he was to know much happiness again. Perhaps, lying helpless upon the deck of the hospital ship, he shed a tear as he recalled the fine trips he used to have when his father took him to the post with dogs and komatik in winter, or he and his father went cruising in the boat along the coast in summer. And now he would never see his dear father again, and could never be a great hunter like his father, as he had once dreamed he would be.

But the cruise was a pleasant one, with every moment something new to attract his attention. Dr. Grenfell was as kind and considerate as a father. Pomiuk had never known such care and attention. His diseased hip was dressed regularly, and had not been so free from pain since it was injured. Appetizing, wholesome meals were served him. Everyone aboard ship did everything possible for his comfort and entertainment.

Pomiuk was taken to the Indian Harbor Hospital where he remained until the cold of winter settled, and the hospital was closed for the winter season. Then he was removed to a comfortable home up the Bay. Under careful surgical treatment his hip improved until he was able to get about well on crutches.

There was never a happier boy in the world than this little Eskimo cripple in his new surroundings and with his new friends. He laughed and played about quite as though he had the use of his limbs, and had forgotten his affliction. During the winter one of the good missionaries from the Moravian Mission at Hopedale visited him and baptized him "Gabriel"--the angel of comfort. He was a comfort indeed and a joy to those who had his care.

XVI

MAKING A HOME FOR THE ORPHANS

The next winter Pomiuk was taken to the hospital at Battle Harbor where he could receive more constant surgical treatment. He was a joy to the doctors and nurses. His face was always happy and smiling. He never complained, and his amiable disposition endeared him not only to the doctors and nurses but to the other patients as well.

But Pomiuk was never to be well again. The diseased hip was beyond control, and was wearing down his constitution and his strength. One day he fell suddenly very ill. For a week he lay in bed, at times unconscious, and then early one morning passed away.

Many shed tears for Pomiuk when he was gone. They missed his joyous laughter and his smiling face. Doctor Grenfell missed him sorely. He could not forget the suffering, naked little boy that he had rescued from the rocks of Nachvak Bay, and he decided that some provision should be made to care for the other orphaned, homeless, neglected children of Labrador. In some way, he decided, the funds for such a home had to be found, though he had no means then at his disposal for the purpose. He further decided that the home must not be an institution merely but a real home made pleasant for the boys and girls, where they would have motherly care and sympathy, and where they should have a school to go to like the children of our own favoured land.