with a temperature of thirty or forty degrees below zero, very cold and uncomfortable.

When we turned into our sleeping-bags Paulus, who could talk a few words of English, remarked to me: "Clouds say big snow maybe. Here very bad. No dog feed. We go early," and pointing to my watch face indicated that we should start at midnight. At eleven o'clock I heard him and Boas get up and go out. Half an hour later they came back with a kettle of hot tea and we had breakfast. Then the two Eskimos, by candle-light, read aloud in their language a form of worship and sang a hymn. All along the coast between Hebron and Makkovik I found morning and evening worship and grace before and after meals a regular institution with the Eskimos, whose religious training is carefully looked after by the Moravians.

By midnight our komatik was packed. "Ooisht! ooisht!" started the dogs forward as the first feathery flakes of the threatened storm fell lazily down. Not a breath of wind was stirring and no sound broke the ominous silence of the night save the crunch of our feet on the snow and the voice of the driver urging on the dogs.

Boas went ahead leading the team on the trail. Presently he halted and shouted back that he could not make out the landmarks in the now thickening snow. Then we circled about until an old track was found and went on again. Time and again this maneuver was repeated. The snow now began to fall heavily and the wind rose. No further sign of the track could be discovered, and short halts were made while Paulus examined my compass to get his bearings.

Finally the summit of the Kiglapait was reached, and the descent was more rapid. At one place on a sharp down grade the dogs started on a run and we jumped upon the komatik to ride. Moving at a rapid pace the team, dimly visible ahead, suddenly disappeared. Paulus rolled off the komatik to avoid going over the ledge ahead, but the rest of us had no time to jump, and a moment later the bottom fell out of our track and we felt ourselves dropping through space. It was a fall of only fifteen feet, but in the night it seemed a hundred. Fortunately we landed on soft snow and no harm was done, but we had a good shaking up.

The storm grew in force with the coming of daylight. Forging on through the driving snow, we reached the ocean ice early in the forenoon and at four o'clock in the afternoon the shelter of an Eskimo hut.

The storm was so severe the next morning that our Eskimos said that to venture out in it would probably mean to get lost, but before noon the wind so far abated that we started.

The snow fell thickly all day, the wind began to rise again, and a little after four o'clock the real force of the gale struck us in one continued, terrific sweep, and the snow blew so thick that we nearly smothered. The temperature was thirty degrees below zero. We could not see the length of the komatik. We did not dare let go of it, for had we separated ourselves a half dozen yards we should certainly have been lost.

Somehow the instincts of drivers and dogs, guided by the hand of a good Providence, led us to the mission house at Nain, which we reached at five o'clock and were overwhelmed by the kindness of the Moravians. This is the Moravian headquarters in Labrador, and the Bishop, Right Reverend A. Martin, with his aids, is in charge.

Sunday was spent here while we secured new drivers and dogs and waited for the storm to blow over.

During the second day from Nain we met Missionary Schmidt returning from a visit to the natives farther south, and had a half hour's chat on the ice.

That evening we reached Davis Inlet Post of the Hudson's Bay Company, and spent the night with Mr. Guy, the agent, and the following morning headed southward again, passed Cape Harrigan, and in another two days reached Hopedale mission, where we arrived just ahead of one of the fierce storms so frequent here at this season of the year, and which held us prisoners from Thursday night until Monday morning. Two days later we pulled in at Makkovik, the last station of the Moravians on our southern trail.

(To be continued)

*Since writing the above I have learned that a half-breed whom I met at Davis Inlet, his wife and a young native left that point for Hopedale just after us, were overtaken by this storm, lost their way and were probably overcome by the elements. Their dogs ate the bodies, and a week later returned, well fed, to Davis Inlet. Dr. Grenfell found the bones in the spring. D. W.

ITHOUT the usual din and clamor incident to battle, a gigantic struggle has been in progress for years upon the bosom of the deep. And this conflict for the supremacy of the sea, in which steam has been pitted against sail, has been none the less relentless and bitter because carried on in comparative silence.

So evenly matched were the two contestants in this great commercial war, that for decades but little advantage rested upon either side. Within recent times, however, the speed and certainty of steam as a motive power triumphed, and to-day its supremacy stands unquestioned in the maritime world.

To its dominating force is due in a large measure the present precarious condition of the American square-rigged fleet. After making its long and gallant fight for existence, the ship has had to relinquish the most profitable ocean routes to its rival, and the present generation will in all probability witness the complete extinction of this noble type of vessel.

There are at present but two hundred and eighty square-riggers flying the Stars and Stripes, counting ships, barks and brigs, and scarcely a week goes by without a further reduction of the number by reason of wreck, dismantling and condemnation. None has been built during the past three years, and builders have no orders on their books for future construction.

Of Sewall's magnificent fleet of ships only a remnant remains. Along the Boston and New York docks a trim American

ship has become almost a curiosity. Upon the Pacific Coast, where the last fragment of our square-rigger fleet is making its last stand, there is nothing in sight to bring about a lasting improvement in the situation.

But the passing of the square-rigger does not portend the extinction of sailing craft. Far from it. It simply emphasizes the fact that upon the sea, as on the land, the forces of evolution are at work, and that ships seem fated to pass into history along with other utilities that were good enough in their day but are unable to meet present requirements.

In the schooner, or fore-and-aft rigged vessel, the square-rigger has a worthy successor, and one that seems destined to indefinitely retain a prominent place in the carrying trade of the country, in spite of steam aggression. In glancing at the statistics for the last ten years we certainly find much encouragement for vessels of this type. Whereas ship-rigged vessels suffered a decrease during this period of over fifty per cent., schooners held their own, and this in spite of the fact that in the same interval several hundred fore-andafters, some dating back as far as 1830, gave up the ghost and were removed from the maritime lists.

From 1894 to 1904, 379 schooners and 167 schooner-rigged barges were constructed, a total of 546, as against 265 steamers for the same period. Within recent times the average size of our schooners has nearly doubled, increasing from 359 to 502 tons burden. There are now upon the lists a total of 1,523 seagoing schooners, aggregating 764,866 tons. Included among