We have spent one indolent day. After the excitement of the morning, when the wind seemed to be shifting permanently, all of us had a sleep. Bill chopped a little wood. Slim and I played “rummy.” I read one of the six books here, “The Story of the Titanic Disaster.” We have read telegrams and scanned maps and weather reports. I took a walk with Andy and Claud Frazer. For supper we had canned rabbit. Bill’s comment when he first tasted it was: “Here’s something they caught last year—something that couldn’t get away.” We had fish today for the first time—canned last year in Newfoundland. Slim hates fish, and had been told that was all there was to eat. Also that even eggs would taste of fish because hens were fed on fish. He has been eating chocolates by the package and seems to thrive. * * * * Slim hails from Texas. Geographically and temperamentally he is no sailor. Even the word “pontoon” made him stutter a bit, and neither salt water nor its products held any joy for him. Consequently he had been plentifully stuffed with stories of what life meant in a fishing village by the sea. To make matters worse he had had a severe attack of ptomaine poisoning from eating clams in Boston just before we started. The only escape led to the little local store and its limited supply of candy. Before we left we had completely absorbed its entire stock. * * * * [Illustration: description: Photo wide shot of 2 story house caption: “X MARKS THE SPOT”—OUR HOME IN TREPASSEY ] [Illustration: description: Photo of sparse dirt road caption: MAIN STREET, TREPASSEY ] _Log Book:_ Bill has just come in, with weather reports. He has wired Byrd for confirmation of plans and advice. If the wind holds as now (from north) we can get away. The old codgers talking here, told me the wind calms down about 4 a.m., so I suggested we get out of this trap and into the next harbor. The change in the wind may make this unnecessary. The boys have retired in the hope the wind stays as is, or moves north. Funny spelling in the paper from St. John’s. “D’oyleys” meaning little paper mats. The language is peculiar. There are too many “r’s.” And often an “oi” sound where one doesn’t belong. “Poilet” for pilot. I investigated hooked rugs today. Mrs. D. has them all over the house; some made from cotton washed ashore twenty years ago from a wreck. By the way, much of the silver and some furniture is from wrecks which ground on this “Graveyard of the Atlantic.” * * * * The cruelty of country and climate is surely a contrast to the kind hearts of the people of Newfoundland. They were untiringly good to us. * * * * _Log Book:_ June 7, 1928.