Here I stopped to take in the view. Before me was a little bay, perhaps a half mile long and a quarter of a mile wide, where the stream from the hill ponds empties into the ocean. This was Petty Harbour, a typical Newfoundland “outport.” On both sides of the harbour rocky walls rose almost straight up to a height of three or four hundred feet. The only outlets were the waters of the tiny bay and the gorge through which I came. There was literally no level land, only a few narrow shelves and terraces along the sides of the hills. There were no streets, only a winding roadway down the slope. The lower portion was too narrow for our motor, so that I had to go part of the way down on foot. The houses were placed every which way on the steep hillsides. Most of them had tiny dooryards, with a patch of grass and sometimes a few flowers in front. Behind them, or at the sides, were other patches of green, on some of which small black and white goats, wearing pokes about their necks, were feeding. Small as were the houses, each was neatness itself and shiny with paint. Every one of the hundred or so houses was built by its occupant or his father before him. Indeed, I am prepared to believe, after what I have seen, that the Newfoundland fisherman is the world’s greatest “handy man.” He builds not only his house, but also his boats, landing stages, and fish-drying platforms; he makes his own nets, raises his own vegetables, and often has a sheep or two to furnish wool, which his wife will spin and weave into a suit of clothes or a jersey. Walk along with me the rest of the way down to the waterside. You must step carefully on the path that leads over and between the ridges of out-cropping rock. Behind us a troop of youngsters are proving themselves true citizens of the kingdom of boyhood by tooting the horn of our motor. I notice many children playing about, and I ask where they go to school. In reply two little frame buildings are pointed out on the hillsides, one the Church of England school, and the other maintained by the Catholics. The children we see look happy and well fed, and the little girls especially are neatly dressed and attractive. But here is a fisherman, drying cod, who offers to show us about. With him we clamber down to the nearest stage, built out over the rocks, its far end resting in water that is deep enough for the boats. The stages are built of spruce poles and look like cliff-dwellers’ homes. At the end nearest the water is a little landing platform, with steps leading down to the motor dory moored alongside.