work and sterilizing outfits are modern and complete, the entire credit for which is due to two St. Anthony men.

St. Anthony has now become the centre for many other mission stations. There are other hospitals at Battle Harbor, across the Straits of Belle Isle; at Harrington on the Canadian Labrador, in the Straits; at Indian Harbor in Eskimo Bay; and at Northwest River at the bottom of Hamilton Inlet, the winter station of Indian Harbor. Each one is the centre of medical work for many miles of coast, and for the fishing fleets North in the summer. St. Anthony receives patients from the whole of Newfoundland. During the summer months and until the boats stop running in January, there is rarely a vacant bed, and even with the new hospital there is frequently an overflow into the old wooden building. About every week a coastwise steamer arrives bringing many patients. The dispensary then does a rushing business. All patients are examined, and those who do not need hospital care or operation are treated and returned that same day when the steamer goes South; the rest being kept on. No patient who needed care has ever been turned away from the hospital, and in the old building there was often little room to be found. Calls from distant coves and villages take doctors and nurses far over Newfoundland and down "the Labrador", and in the winter dog sledge is the only means of travel. There is need beyond all estimate for this medical work.

And one must not forget the Strathcona II, sister ship to the original Strathcona, which sank at sea after many years of strenuous sailing. This is the hospital ship which Sir Wilfred navigates each summer. A fine steam yacht, she is small, but well built. The old radio room beneath the bridge is converted into a dispensary, and, though only some seven feet square, has every inch well utilized and stocked with medical supplies for the summer's work. Aft, the main saloon is narrow, but with a balanced swinging table, like a binnacle, so level in any weather that racks are rarely used; and below decks, the rooms. There is no place to bunk the sick, for she is not large enough, and patients that need hospital treatment are temporarily cared for until one of the hospitals can be reached.

Then, too, one finds the other work and projects that the Doctor

(for as such he is known throughout the Coast) has started and developed in these years of work-day schools, and summer schools taught by college students, child welfare, industrial work, farming, and the herding of goats, cows and reindeer. These have been attended with varying success, for some schemes are ventures and must necessarily not work out. St. Anthony goats, for one, are still a problem of some importance, for statistics leave grave doubt as to the value of their milk as against their devastating appetites. There are vicissitudes in their upbringing, and many are the carefully nurtured vegetable gardens of St. Anthony that have seen wholesale destruction by these unaltruistic beasts.

Nursing stations, placed in outlying districts as at Flower's Cove, White Bay and Conche in Newfoundland, and Forteau in Labrador, serve distant communities not large enough for hospitals. Here nursing graduates from the United States, Canada and England live the year round, covering the coasts for miles. These nurses seem to find much enjoyment in the work, for it has a romance and excitement not found in many places, though it is often perilous and lonely.

At St. Anthony and at Muddy Bar, near Cartwright in Labrador, there are two large orphanage schools, for children whose fathers have perished in storms that have swept the fishing fleets. Enough cannot be said for these orphanages, for in them are children who have had the best of education and training, in contrast to the meagre opportunities of other schools. To have been among these children is a privilege, for they are a great group. Many of them are lovely, bright, cheerful and capable, and unquestionably in them is the answer to the greatest problem of all-the future of Labrador. They are one of the most urgent reasons for the continuation of work on the coast. They represent, even though a small group, the nucleus that will be capable of taking over the problem of adjusting and handling their own affairs. They have the education, the upbringing, the background, the inspiration and the opportunities that have never before been the privilege of children of Labrador. It should be the beginning of a new heritage and one that should be extended and cultivated even farther, if work there is to continue. As in all

other parts of the world, it is only with this younger group that we can hope for progress. These children of Labrador, brought up in the orphanage schools, offer the richest and most hopeful field in which to work. We cannot hope to keep those living there as dependents of civilization, but rather hope through education to teach these of the younger generation to be capable of carrying their own burdens and settling the final destiny of their own people. Labrador should become their own problem, and will, when they are capable of handling it.

The rigorous climate and long winters are a handicap to progress, but ignorance is open to approach, and education has its usual effect in Labrador as elsewhere. People will forever remain in Labrador, and it is Sir Wilfred who has shown them new horizons and possibilities for their own development. Two great economic resources have as yet scarcely been touched, water power and forests, while the third, fishing, their great source of livelihood, has suffered much from corruption in high places. Surely it is through the education of these younger ones that we may hope for the development and protection of these industries. If there is any future for Labrador, it is in these children, who vindicate the years of service already spent.

The Doctor does little surgery today, for his energy has necessarily been diverted toward channels of executive work, writing, lecturing, and elaborating new projects for development. Labrador is his Laboratory of Life, his field of experimentation, made possible by many loyal workers. It is the outlet for the guiding principles of his life. St. Anthony he has seen grow as the centre of work expanding far along the coasts, as a monument to his courage and devotion.

Today it is the Strathcona II-in years gone by it was the Albert, and the Princess May and the Sir Donald-which takes him to the farthest ports, practising medicine and surgery and carrying the Gospel of Christ. Today it is the Strathcona II with its trips for which he lives and to which he looks forward, for it is aboard her that he carries on the things that make life worth living. She embodies what life means to him and is the medium for realizing intentions, for achievement, for adventure, and for service. In his own words, "work, service, worship and

play" are the meaning of life. Each one is a great adventure, and so each trip of that small trig ship that he loves so dearly is an adventure.

Once aboard her, he is transformed. Life takes on a new freshness and vigor. The winds that toss that shock of gray hair above his strong, tanned face, bring back a youthfulness and enthusiasm for the new experiences that lie ahead. There is a rough simplicity in life aboard her which is closely akin to his own nature, and one can feel how much he loves it, and with what patience he has waited for it. There is hard work in it, comradeship with people for whom he cares a great deal, opportunity to carry help where it is needed, and a chance to play.

Each summer the Strathcona II goes out, stopping at little villages and hamlets along the way. The harbors are many and deep, offering a secure anchorage, and a genial hospitality to those aboard. In every port there is need for medical work, poverty, miscarriages of justice to be straightened, industrial problems to be solved, or new projects to be started. Navigation is difficult, charts almost worthless, with uncharted waters farther North. As master of the ship, the Doctor takes chances, to be sure, but it is rather that courageous spirit of adventure, that drive to push on, that carries him where other vessels dare not go and in weather when they ride at anchor. Occasionally his short cuts, tried with boyish delight, bring him hard up upon the flats or against a rock. Once near Cartwright, the sands held us tight. There was a fat Roman Father as passenger, who lacked that sound basis of religion which is the Doctor's-Faith-and who, on this occasion, lost what poise may ever have been his, and in fear and trembling flitted about the decks invoking the blessings of the Almighty. A half hour with a lead line, a rising tide, and a motor boat, saw us free once more; the Doctor, the wiser for this new addition to his charts, the Roman Father rather the worse for the experience, and the Strathcona intact. Often he goes far North, down beyond the Mission's active field, to the Moravian stations at Hopedale, and at Nain or farther. Here he navigates the vast inland waterways of that archipelago of islands, where fiords are deep between the mountains topped with snow above the dark green firs and spruce.

Work fills the programme of each day. No matter what it is, he drives on with an untiring energy that tests the strength of far younger men. It never discomposes him. There are few things in the lives of the people of the coast that he cannot do as well as they, or better; there is no task which he avoids, no physical strain to which he does not willingly lend himself. There are long hours on the bridge, when navigation is precarious, and endless work into which he plunges himself with untiring enthusiasm. But beside the medical care, the industrial work, the trading projects, the guardianship of justice, the economic thrift and foresight that Sir Wilfred teaches, he fills a great spiritual need in the colorless and desolate lives of many. He is the "beloved physician" of the people, and beyond all else, brings hope, sympathy, kindness and cheer to them. Sunday on the Strathcona is a day of rest, observed in deference to the customs of the people-no boats sail, no nets are hauled, no work is done, no steam is raised. Those ashore look forward to these days when the Doctor is among them, and he loves them too.

Almost devoid of a theology and of sectarian wranglings, he is unorthodox but with a fearlessness of conviction that Christ's teachings are the motive force in life, and the source of greatest happiness. There comes to mind a conversation with him of which one phrase stands out: "There is a difference between theology and religion: Theology is what one comprehends, religion what one does." So today, as always, he leads the life that Christ would have him, giving and serving with an intense devotion and faith. Sundays in the North mean much to him, for it is then that he comes closest to Him Whom he serves. There in some fisherman's hamlet, or, as he prefers in "civil" weather, high on some knoll above the sea, bare headed in the open, surrounded by the simple fisher folk, he comes closest to Him Whose teachings have been the inspiration of his life. No church, no ceremony, no throngs, no other settings bring from him the courage, the affection, the fearlessness, and the gentleness that are his. He himself loves these meetings, looks forward to them, and remembers them, for their rough simplicity brings new courage, and their nearness to Christ's own ways of teaching strengthens that Faith which guides each new adventure.