Sometimes it is called Wykogamah. Thus the innocent traveler ismisled. Along the Whykokomagh Bay we come to a permanent encampmentof the Micmac Indians,--a dozen wigwams in the pine woods. Thoughlumber is plenty, they refuse to live in homes. The wigwams,however, are more picturesque than the square frame homes of theblacks. Built up conically of poles, with a hole in the top for thesmoke to escape, and often set up a little from the ground on atimber foundation, they are as pleasing to the eye as a Chinese orTurkish dwelling. They may be freezing in winter, but blessed be thetenacity of barbarism, which retains this agreeable architecture.The men live by hunting in the season, and the women support thefamily by making moccasins and baskets. These Indians are most ofthem good Catholics, and they try to go once a decade to mass and asort of religious festival held at St. Peter's, where their sins areforgiven in a decadely lump.

At Whykokomagh, a neat fishing village of black houses, we stoppedfor dinner at the Inverness House. The house was very clean, and thetidy landlady gave us as good a dinner as she could of the inevitablegreen tea, toast, and salt fish. She was Gaelic, but Protestant, asthe village is, and showed us with pride her Gaelic Bible andhymn-book. A peaceful place, this Whykokomagh; the lapsing waters ofBras d'0r made a summer music all along the quiet street; the bay laysmiling with its islands in front, and an amphitheater of hills rosebehind. But for the line of telegraph poles one might have fanciedhe could have security and repose here.