The ferryman and his shaggy comrade get ready at last, and we stepinto the clumsy yawl, and the sluggishly moving oars begin to pull usupstream. The strait is here less than a mile wide; the tide isrunning strongly, and the water is full of swirls,--the littlewhirlpools of the rip-tide. The morning-star is now high in the sky;the moon, declining in the west, is more than ever like a silvershield; along the east is a faint flush of pink. In the increasinglight we can see the bold shores of the strait, and the squareprojection of Cape Porcupine below.

0n the rocks above the town of Plaster Cove, where there is a blackand black sign,--Telegraph Cable,--we set ashore our companions ofthe evening, and look at them climb up to their station for retailing thenecessary means of intoxication in their district, with the mournfulthought that we may never behold them again.