toughest ol' mussel ever you tasted. Sure, I had t' rub me eyes when I looked; but 'twas he, never fear-'twas he, stickin' there like a mussel. But there was no gettin' un then. Us watched un all that day. 'Twas dark afore us got un ashore.

"You come nigh it that time,' says I. "I'll have t' come a sight nigher,' says he, 'afore I goes!""

The man had been on the reef more than forty-eight hours!

The Army Lass, bound north, was lost in the fog. They hove her to. All hands knew that she lay somewhere near the coast. The skipper needed a sight of the rocks-just a glimpse of some headland or island-to pick the course. It was important that he should have it. There was an iceberg floating near; it was massive; it appeared to be steady-and the sea was quiet. From the top of it, he thought (the fog was dense and seemed to be lying low), he might see far and near. His crew

put him on the ice with the quarter-boat and then hung off a bit. He clambered up the side of the berg. Near the summit be had to cut his foothold with an axe. This was unfortunate; for he gave the great white mass one blow too many. It split under his feet. He fell headlong into the widening crevice. But he was apparently not a whit the worse for it w his boat's crew picked him up.

A schooner-let her be called the Good Fortune-running through dense fog, with a fair, high wind and all sail set, struck a "twin" iceberg bow on. She was wrecked in a flash her jib-boom was rammed into her forecastle; her bows were stove in; her topmast snapped and came crashing to the deck. Then she fell away from the ice; whereupon the wind caught her, turned her about, and drove her, stern foremost, into a narrow passage which lay between the two towering sections of the "twin." She scraped along, striking the ice on either

side; and with every blow, down came fragments from above.

"It rained chunks," said the old skipper who told me the story. "You couldn't tell, look! what minute you'd get knocked on the head."

The falling ice made great havoc with the deck-works; the boats were crushed the " "house 99 was stove in; the deck was littered with ice. But the Good Fortune drove safely through, was rigged with makeshift sails, made harbour, was refitted by all hands-the Labradormen can build a ship with an axe-and continued her voyage.

I have said that the Newfoundlanders occasionally navigate by means of old rhymes; and this brings me to the case of Zachariah, the skipper of the Heavenly Rest. He was a Newf'un'lander. Neither wind, fog nor a loppy sea could turn his blood to water. He was a New f'un'lander of the hardshell breed. So he sailed the