had a share in the life of a generation ago. Now one finds them in the public wash-house, or spreading fish to dry for winter use, or stringing cod tongues for their French-speaking children to sell. The cartloads of tongues, cheeks and sounds which the little hucksters vend are drawn by dog-teams, harnessed with rope and gingham-bound collars and bitted with a straight twig of wood. The dogs of Miquelon merit an ode to their fortitude and docile sagacity. Most of them boast a strain of that Newfoundland breed of which even a trace seems to ennoble the most outlandish of mongrels. Nearly all fishing vessels carry dogs as retrievers of cod which fall from the deck in loading; as fog detectors—it is said they can scent approaching vapour as well as land—and as augurs of good luck. When the master puts out to his vessel, Jacko swims after, though the distance may be upwards of a mile and the water wintry cold.
One comes to the beach where the dory fishermen land their daily catch by following the Street of the Army of Italy, which begins at the north end of the quay. On the way, one passes the three cannon which overlook the channel, and which comprise the last French armament in North America. The antiquated trio was formerly a quartette. But upon the occasion of a national fête a patriot thought to discharge a blast, and annihilated both the gun and himself in doing so. Thus he attained
