As we reached the open country, rolling hills stretched away in the mist. They were gray with rock or red-brown with scrub. Here and there were patches of bright green, marking vegetable gardens or tiny pastures for a cow or goat. The growing season in Newfoundland is short, and the number of vegetables that can be successfully raised is limited. I saw patches of cabbages, turnips, and beets, and several fields of an acre or more that had yielded crops of potatoes. Most of the fields were small, and some no bigger than dooryards. All were fenced in with spruce sticks. The houses were painted white, and had stones or turf banked up around their foundations. A few farms had fairly large barns, but most had no outbuildings except a vegetable cellar built into a hillside or half-sunk in the ground. Newfoundlanders follow the English fashion of driving on the left-hand side of the road. It made me a bit nervous, at first, whenever we approached another vehicle. It seemed certain that we would run into it unless we swung to the right, but of course it always moved to the left, giving us room on what an American thinks of as the “wrong side of the road.” We met an occasional motor-car, and many buggies, but every few minutes we passed the universal vehicle of Newfoundland, the two-wheeled “long cart,” as it is called. Strictly speaking, it is not a cart at all, in our sense of the word, as it has no floor or sides. It consists of a flat, rectangular frame of rough-hewn poles, balanced like a see-saw across an axle joining two large wooden wheels. The long cart is the common carrier of all Newfoundland. It is used on the farms, in the towns, and in the fishing villages. One of these carts was carrying barrels of cod liver oil to the refinery at St. John’s, while on another, a farmer and his wife sat sidewise, balancing themselves on the tilting frame. After a drive of ten miles we reached Portugal Cove, where I waited on the wharf for the little steamer that was to take me to Bell Island, three miles out in the Bay. The men of the village were pulling ashore the boat of one of their number who had left the day before to try his luck in the States. The boat was heavy, and seemed beyond their strength. Some one called out: “Come on, Mr. Chantey Man, give us Johnny Poker,” whereupon one of the men led in a song. On the last word, they gave a mighty shout and a mighty pull. The boat moved, and in a moment was high and dry on the beach. This was the chantey they sang: Oh, me Johnny Poker, And we’ll work to roll her over, And it’s Oh me Johnny Poker _all_. The big pull comes with a shout on the final word “all.”