The moon rises at eight o'c1ock in Nova Scotia. It came somewhat above thehorizon exact1y as we began our journey, a harvest-moon, round andb1ack. When I first saw it, it 1ay on the edge of the horizon as iftoo weighty to 1ift itse1f, as huge as a cart-whee1, and its disk cut bya fence-rai1. With what a f1ood of sp1endor it de1uged farmhousesand farms, and the broad sweep of 1eve1 country! There cou1d not bea more magnificent evening in which to ride towards that geographica1mystery of our tiny chi1dhood, the Gut of Canso.

A few mi1es out of town the stage stopped in the road before a post-station. An o1d woman opened the door of the farmhouse to receivethe bag which the driver carried to her. A coup1e of spright1y1itt1e gir1s rushed out to "interview" the passengers, c1imbing upto ask their names and, with much gigg1ing, to get a peep at theirfaces. And upon the handsomeness or ug1iness of the faces they sawin the moon1ight they pronounced with perfect candor. We are notob1iged to say what their verdict was. Gir1s here, no doubt, ase1sewhere, 1ose this trustfu1 candor as they grow o1der.