Unhappily, there are many cases on authentic record when young children and old people, unable to defend themselves, have been devoured by dogs—not necessarily when the dogs were starving. A grewsome climax was reached when in the “flu” epidemic of 1918-19 on the Labrador the dogs fell on the dead and the dying and the enfeebled survivors could not stem the onslaught. No wonder, then, that Dr. Grenfell, with all his manifest affection for dogs that he has known, insists that the importation of reindeer is the salvation and the solution. Stubbornly the folk of the northern tip of the peninsula and the Labrador coast cling to the huskies that were banished, in favour of cows, horses, pigs and chickens, by their more sophisticated southern neighbours. Uncle Philip Coates at Eddy’s Cove is the only man on that shore, as far as is known, who keeps pigs. A fisherman landing on an island off Cape Charles, on the side away from his home, found himself the object of the unwelcome attentions of a pack of dogs who were acting on the principle of the uncouth villager of the old story who cried: “’Ere’s a stranger, Bill—let’s ’eave ’arf a brick at him.” He is sure they would have pounced on him and polished off his bones, had he not seen one dog he knew—the leader. He called the dog’s name; the wolfish creature halted instantly. When the name was repeated, the dog slunk off, his ragged retinue at his heels. It is sad to think that the dogs that will perform so nobly in the traces are such bad actors when they have nothing to do but to pick a quarrel in places where perhaps there is no foliage but the proud curled plumage of their tails. They are beside themselves with excitement when after the summer siesta they are harnessed to the komatik again. When the driver smartly rubs his hands and cries, “See the deer!”—or anything he pleases—it augments the fever. In Labrador “ouk, ouk!” turns the team to the right—perchance with a disconcerting promptness—and “urrah, urrah!” swerves it to the left. The corresponding directions in Newfoundland are “keep off!” and “hold in.” No reins are used—some drivers use no whip. The books of Dr. Grenfell abound in affectionate reference to the better nature of these animals and their extraordinary fidelity to duty. Like most of the people of the land, they do not fear to die. Their life is largely of neglect and pain: they spend much of their time crawling under the houses to get out of the way. Their pleasure is the greater when they find a human playmate ready to throw a stick into the water for them. Grand swimmers are they, and they will plunge into the coldest sea; and if they are hungry they dive in for a small fish without concern. It is hard to find a time when they are not ready to set their fangs to food—“full-fed” is an ideal condition to which most of them seldom attain. A square meal of whalemeat is their millennium. “I don’t see what satisfaction they get