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a line from Cape Cod to Newfoundland and it will cleave an island group where the three-barred pennant of France snaps from mast and pole, and hamlets are guarded by French gendarmes. Shrines at the angle of low-gabled streets, groups that play at Basque Ball on the square, dogs that strain at burdens denote the nationality of this archipelago, which lies only a little way off northern steamer lanes, but is less familiar to travellers than many isles in remote seas.

Here, cafés that smell of byrrh and good Bordeaux are served by damsels Gallic in tongue and gesture, and place and quay are cumbered by the tread of wooden-soled boots which, like smiting pink socks, broad caps and swaggering sashes call to mind the costumes of Brittany and its neighbour provinces.

Steamers from New York and Boston tie up at Halifax near the mail packet which leaves twice a month for St. Pierre. If arrival and departure are well-timed, a fair weather voyage of scarcely three