and in its bays fattens the oyster.  This irregular lake is about a hundred miles long, if you measure it skillfully, and in some places ten miles broad; but so indented is it, that I am not sure but one would need, as we were informed, to ride a thousand miles to go round it, following all its incursions into the land.  The hills about it are never more than five or six hundred feet high, but they are high enough for reposeful beauty, and offer everywhere pleasing lines.

What we first saw was an inlet of the Bras d’Or, called, by the driver, Hogamah Bay.  At its entrance were long, wooded islands, beyond which we saw the backs of graceful hills, like the capes of some poetic sea-coast.  The bay narrowed to a mile in width where we came upon it, and ran several miles inland to a swamp, round the head of which we must go.  Opposite was the village of Hogamah.  I had my suspicions from the beginning about this name, and now asked the driver, who was liberally educated for a driver, how he spelled “Hogamah.”

“Why-ko-ko-magh.  Hogamah.”

Sometimes it is called Wykogamah.  Thus the innocent traveler is misled.  Along the Whykokomagh Bay we come to a permanent encampment of the Micmac Indians,—­a dozen wigwams in the pine woods.  Though lumber is plenty, they refuse to live in houses.  The wigwams, however, are more picturesque than the square frame houses of the whites.  Built up conically of poles, with a hole in the top for the smoke to escape, and often set up a little from the ground on a timber foundation, they are as pleasing to the eye as a Chinese or Turkish dwelling.  They may be cold in winter, but blessed be the tenacity of barbarism, which retains this agreeable architecture.  The men live by hunting in the season, and the women support the family by making moccasins and baskets.  These Indians are most of them good Catholics, and they try to go once a year to mass and a sort of religious festival held at St. Peter’s, where their sins are forgiven in a yearly lump.

At Whykokomagh, a neat fishing village of white houses, we stopped for dinner at the Inverness House.  The house was very clean, and the tidy landlady gave us as good a dinner as she could of the inevitable green tea, toast, and salt fish.  She was Gaelic, but Protestant, as the village is, and showed us with pride her Gaelic Bible and hymn-book.  A peaceful place, this Whykokomagh; the lapsing waters of Bras d’Or made a summer music all along the quiet street; the bay lay smiling with its islands in front, and an amphitheater of hills rose behind.  But for the line of telegraph poles one might have fancied he could have security and repose here.