after high-water, and when the tide will

have fallen four feet,

or even more, in the harbor,
it will still be running up
into the river, the curious spec-
tacle being presented of the tide
simultaneously running up
through the main channel and
spilling out into the Bay through
the channel between Partridge
Island and Fort Dufferin on the
Carleton side, opposite St. John.
The harbor of St. John, although

nearly a hundred miles up the Bay, teems with
salmon, smaller but more toothsome than those
of the rivers, and with a delicious variety of
shad known as gaspereau. The extraordinary
tides of the harbor make fishing there a sim-
ple, safe, and unromantic occupation;
although one might suppose the exact
contrary to be the case. But for about
a mile along the Carleton shore the
waters are literally fenced in by high
net weirs, into which the fish swim at
certain stages of the tide. Once in the
weirs, they circle around from side to
side without being able to dis-
cover the exit, and at low-
water the fishermen row into
the weirs and catch the fish
with dip-nets. On the rocks

High and Low Water at Eastport, Me.

at the mouth of the gorge below the bridges is a small weir, stoutly built and very high. Yet at times the tide heaps itself up to such a height that it was found necessary to stretch a roof of netting over the weir to prevent the fish

from being lifted out of the weir by the water. While at St. John, I inquired of the official in charge of the light-houses and buoys in the Bay of Fundy how many fathoms of cable were required to anchor the buoys in the deeper waters of the Bay. He informed me that it is necessary to use from sixty to one hundred fathoms. As a buoy swinging to such a long cable is apt to shift position considerably in the swiftly flowing tides, it is necessary to specify

the length of cable in the notices to mariners. The difference between high and low water mark can be well observed on the quaint little white beacon in St. John Harbor.

On the Nova Scotian shore of the Bay the high tides have been restrained from overflowing the lowlands by light dikes of mud, with aboideaux-swinging gates which close on the incoming of the tide but open on the ebb, thus draining the rich alluvial meadows. When long cultivation threatens to exhaust the fertility of these, the aboideaux are opened to the flood, and the sediment left by one tide will refresh these lands for years. The usual yield is from one and a half to two tons of fine English hay to the acre. The most noted marshes are the Tantramar and Missiguash, near Amherst, and the Grand Pré, on the Basin of Minas. The two former embrace about fifty thousand acres of rich alluvial intervale-a wavy expanse of green reaching to the blue waters of the bay, to whose tides it owes its creation and continuing fertility. The Tantramar Marsh is nine miles in length and four in width. Missiguash Marsh is traversed by the river of the same name, on opposite banks of which stood the forts Beau Séjour and Lawrence, whose garrisons courteously exchanged bullets to be returned from the muzzles of their muskets.

The

The tides of the Bay of Fundy have determined the method of carrying out an important enterprise, now nearing completion at Amherst. Shipping from the Gulf of St. Lawrence to the south is now obliged to pass through the Strait of Northumberland and the Strait of Canso before entering the Atlantic. From Amherst across to Tidnish, on the shore of Northumberland Strait, is less than twenty miles, and the plan of building a canal from the Strait into the Bay of Fundy was broached many years ago, as it would save about four hundred miles. When, however, the project was seriously taken up, within recent years, the engineers were forced to the conclusion that the high tides of the Bay would create such a rush of water toward the Strait, where the rise was but a few feet, that the operating of

VOL. XIV.-34

a canal would be utterly impracticable. Therefore a ship-railroad is being constructed for the transportation of vessels up to a thousand tons. The vessel floats on to a cradle, which is then raised, run on to double tracks forty feet apart, and drawn by two locomotives across the isthmus.

From Tidnish to Amherst the distance by water is about six hundred miles. When the ship-railroad is completed it is hoped to make the trip within two hours.

The Basin of Minas lies on the opposite side of the Cumberland Peninsula. The broad marshlands from which Grand Pré derives its name fill the most southerly recess of this inlet. One looks out across this meadow and the sparkling waters of the Basin to the dark-red precipice of Blomidou. The dikes which rescued this " prairie" from the tides of the Bay were built by the Acadians.

"Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant,

Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gates Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at

will o'er the meadows.'

Through the passage between Blomidou and Cape Sharp the tide runs at the rate of from eight to ten knots an hour. The Avon River, which may be said to receive its waters from the Basin of Minas rather than to flow into it, is, at low-water, like the Petitcodiac at Moncton, a mere ooze-lined rent in the landscape, filling up suddenly, though without the phenomenon of a 'bore," on the flood. It is of the Avon that Charles Dudley Warner remarks:

"I never knew before how much water adds to a river. I should think it would be confusing to dwell by a river that first runs one way and then the other, and then vanishes altogether."

A southwesterly gale creates an unusually high flood-tide in the indentations about the head of the bay. The "Saxby " gale, named after the weather prophet who so accurately foretold it, which occurred October 5, 1869, is especially remembered for the destruction it wrought, although the disasters to shipping were few because Saxby's

warning was generally heeded by vessels. Up to four o'clock in the afternoon the weather was calm; but before eight o'clock in the evening, a storm, such as had not raged within the memory of veteran shipmasters, had burst over the Bay of Fundy. A railroad train on the Western Extension (now Canadian Pacific) from St. John, collided with a barn which had been blown across the track; stretches of forest were literally mowed down; and the tide leaping up before the furious blast, burst through the dikes of the marshlands and covered these, carrying a schooner some three miles in upon Tantramar Marsh, and on receding, left it there high and dry. It was calculated that the Saxby tide was from six to ten feet higher than the neap tides.

While the most interesting manifestations of the tidal rise and fall in the Bay of Fundy are at the head of the Bay, and the scenic climax of the range of phenomena connected with the tides is found in the reversible rapids at St. John, a number of features near the mouth are worth observing. Near Dog Island, not far from Eastport, the meeting of the tides from the Bay with Indian River has created a whirlpool which sucks under logs and rowboats, has turned even a small steamboat completely around, and would have drawn it down, had its steam-power not enabled it to escape. The bodies of those who have been lost in this whirlpool have, I am informed, never been recovered, and of the boats only fragments have been found, as if they had been ground to pieces on the rocks at the bottom.

A tidal mill near Lubec affords a very picturesque illustration of the difference between the level of the bay at high and low water-in fact you can see both levels simultaneously. The mill stands on the shore of the Bay, the bed of the mill-pond being about fifteen feet above low-water. When the tide rises, the gates in the dam are opened and the water flows into the pond. At highwater the gates are closed with enough water in the pond to run the mill for about eight hours, the fall at low-water being fifteen feet. The view of this

mill from the height behind it is extremely picturesque. A green field slopes down to the edge of the pond, which mirrors the pretty shores and the gray mill buildings, the hills in the background framing in the waters of the Bay. I utilized the opportunity to photograph this scene at low - water, the view showing the difference between the level of the pond and of the Bay. On my way to the mill I crossed a small stream-or rather the bed of one, for the tide had run out. Some farmers were gathering basketfuls of young pollock, which the receding tide had left floundering in the mud.

The wharves at the sardine factories in this vicinity afford excellent objectlessons in the tidal fall. The stringpiece of the outer line of piles is about twenty feet above low-water. The tide usually rises to within a few feet of it. But at low-water vessels lie high and dry alongside the wharf, and carts are driven where at high tide the horses would drown. The illustrations showing the conditions at high- and low-water at Windsor, N. S. (p. 339) and at Eastport, Me. (p. 340), are typical scenes. The great fall of the tide makes it necessary for vessels to adopt special devices to land their passengers at lowwater. At wharves which are built far out, only steps down the side of the wharf are required. At Lubec the steamboat which plies between that point and Campobello, cannot come up to the wharf at low-tide, and it is necessary to moor at the foot of the steps a floating bridge extending out about thirty feet, the passengers crossing this bridge and then ascending the steps. The herring which form the raw material for the numerous sardine factories about Eastport, are caught in weirs made of poles and brushwood, which they enter on the flood or the beginning of the ebb, and in which they are captured at low-water.

What is the cause of the remarkable tides in the Bay of Fundy? I have not seen a scientific explanation of it attempted. Ask the old sea-captains familiar with the Bay, and they will tell you that its peculiar, trough like shape, narrowing from the broad reach between Cape Sable, Nova Scotia, and the

coast of Maine, heaps up the waters it receives from this great arm of the ocean and thus produces the extraordinary tidal rise and fall. Certainly it is about the head, or rather heads, of the Bay, where it grows more narrow and trough like, that the most phenomenal tidal manifestations occur. These headwaters being in themselves miniature bays of Fundy, would seem to bear out this simple theory-too simple perhaps for those who cannot realize that great

ends are often the result of simple means. From the mouth of the Bay up there is a constant repetition of the tidal phenomena, but on a steadily growing scale. As we proceed up the Bay the difference between the levels of low and high water increases, until we reach Cobequid Bay, at the head of Minas Basin, with sixty square miles of mud-flats at low-water, and Moncton with a "bore" and a tidal rise and fall of seventy feet.

66

VI.

T must have been a fortnight before we learned that Jeff Beech and Byron Truax had been reported missing. I say "we," but I do not know when Abner Beech came to hear about it. One of the hired girls had seen the farmer get up from his chair, with the newly arrived weekly World in his hand, walk over to where his wife sat, and direct her attention to a line of the print with his finger. Then, still in silence, he had gone over to the bookcase, opened the drawer where he kept his account-books, and locked the journal up therein.

We took it for granted that thus the elderly couple had learned the news about their son. They said so little nowadays, either to each other or to us, that we were driven to speculate upon their dumb-show, and find meanings for ourselves in their glances and actions. No one of us could imagine himself or herself venturing to mention Jeff's name in their hearing.

Down at the Corners, though, and all about our district, people talked of very little else. Antietam had given a bloody welcome to our little group of warriors. Ray Watkins and Lon Truax had been killed outright, and Ed Phillips was in the hospital, with the chances thought to be against him. Warner Pitts, our

other hired man, had been wounded in the arm, but not seriously, and thereafter behaved with such conspicuous valor that it was said he was to be promoted from being a sergeant to a lieutenancy. All these things, however, paled in interest after the first few days before the fascinating mystery of what had become of Jeff and Byron. The loungers about the grocery-store evenings took sides as to the definition of "missing." Some said it meant being taken prisoners; but it was known that at Antietam the Rebels made next to no captives. Others held that "missing" soldiers were those who had been shot, and who crawled off somewhere in the woods out of sight to die. A lumberman from Juno Mills, who was up on a horse-trade, went so far as to broach still a third theory, viz., that "missing" soldiers were those who had run away under fire, and were ashamed to show their faces again. But this malicious suggestion could not, of course, be seriously considered.

Meanwhile, what little remained of the fall farm-work went on as if nothing had happened. The root-crops were dug, the fodder got in, and the late apples gathered. Abner had a cider-mill of his own, but we sold a much larger share of our winter apples than usual. Less manure was drawn out onto the fields than in other autumns, and it looked as if there was to be little or no fall ploughing. Abner