their howling.

"But at last, in order to save the remnant, it was necessary to move
them, and I decided to load them on a fishing-vessel and take them
across the Straits to the St. Augustine River country, where they
could increase in peace, and the dogs would not bother them, and the
Canadian Government could protect them from any Indian hunters who
might come along.

"It was a fine plan, on paper. But it was like the old recipe for
making a rabbit pie--'first catch your hare.' The reindeer having had
the run of the open spaces so long saw no reason why they should be
caught and put on a boat and carried off.

"So they gave us a run for it, I can tell you! All over the place we
rushed, shouting and trying to lasso or corner the terrified animals.
I never laughed so hard in my life. The wind was blowing great guns,
and you simply couldn't stand up against it. We caught a great many of
the reindeer. But a lot of them romped off into the woods and took to
the hills and we never saw them again. Since they were moved to Canada
they have done well--and some day, when the people are ready to have
them, I want to move them back and see if we can't replace the
dog-teams with them."

Meanwhile the little ship had turned her head away from the unsavory
Onion, and was running on, over a long diagonal, to cross the straits
in the bared teeth of the green and yeasty waves. That she was
top-heavy was plainly to be seen, with her barrels of whale-meat and
her high-piled fire-wood on deck, and almost no ballast or cargo
below.

As we stood out into the middle of the channel, I thought of the great
boats that must feel their way through the dense fog in evil weather.
They would have to be honking like wild geese, even though the straits
at their narrowest between Flower's Cove and Greenley Island are ten
miles wide. Fog is a terrible deceiver. I remember coming up the East
Coast on the mail-steamer _Invermore_ in 1913. In a day after leaving
Twillingate we were nearly wrecked three times. First, when we thought
we were ten miles offshore, we found a tiny skiff, with two persons
aboard, in our path--we nearly ran it down. Father and small son,
fourteen, were fishing for cod, and had their meagre catch in a tin
pail. Captain Kane had stopped our boat--we were going at quarter
speed--and he had the man come up on the bridge to show us where the
land lay. "Out yonder!" The ancient mariner pointed to the northwest.
A rowboat was man