e
other? Has one man more than another the right to be called
"missionary," for of what use is any man in the world if he has no
mission in it? Christ's life is one long emphasis on the point that in
the last analysis, when something has to be done, it is the individual
who has to do it. It is, we believe, a fact of paramount importance
for efficiency and economy; and the loyalty of God in committing such
trust to us, when He presumably knows exactly how unworthy we are of
it, is the explanation of life's enigma.

When at last our food and freight were purchased for the loggers for
the winter and landed by the mail steamer nine miles from the mill,
the whole bay was frozen and five miles of ice already over six inches
thick. The hull of the Strathcona was three eighths of an inch soft
steel; but there was no other way to transport the goods but on her,
excepting by sledges--a very painful and impracticable method.

It was decided that as we could not possibly butt through the ice, we
must butt over it. The whole company of some thirty men helped us to
move everything, including chains and anchors, to the after end of the
ship, and to pile up the barrels of pork, flour, sugar, molasses,
etc., together with boats and all heavy weights, so that her fore foot
came above the water level and she looked as if she were sinking by
the stern. We then proceeded to crash into the ice. Up onto it we ran,
and then broke through, doing no damage whatever to her hull. The only
trouble was that sometimes she would get caught fast in the trough,
and it was exceedingly hard to back her astern for a second drive. To
counteract this all hands stood on one rail, each carrying a weight,
and then rushed over to the other side, backward and forward at the
word of command, thus causing the steamer to roll. It was a very slow
process, but we got there, though in true Biblical fashion, literally
"reeling to and fro like drunken men."

While the mill was in its cradle, we in the Strathcona were cruising
the northern Labrador waters. We witnessed that year, off the mighty
Kaumajets, the most remarkable storm of lightning that I have ever
seen in those parts. Inky masses hid the hoary heads of those
tremendous cliffs. Away to the northwest, over the high land called
Saeglek, a lurid light just marked the sharp outline of the mills.
Ahead, where we were trying to make the entrance to Hebron Bay, an
apparently impenetrable wall persisted. Seaward ni