It is there; it is here in this tramp from Canada, moored like a giant captive “hippo,” her stern soaring up from her rudder post in a blank black curve, broken only by her name rambling across her wide posterior. A blade of her single propeller juts out of the water like the burst-out busk of a disreputable corset. Her decks sweep unadorned to the castle-like superstructure in her middle. She is untidy; she is one of the salt-soaked “hoi polloi,” but she has a sort of robust vulgarity which seems to say: “I mebbe rough, I mebbe tough but, buddy, I sticks to me pals.” She is a Mae West of the seven seas. God help me, I fall in love with her ample curves and her honest countenance. And the scent she uses! It breathes of pines cloaked in frost, of trappers on snow-shoes, of bears snuffling to their winter beds; it brings visions of lumber camps, of lumber-jacks leaping bucking logs in the swirl of icy rivers. page 51 It projects moving pictures on the silver sheet of imagination. A crane hoists a fifty-foot stick of reeking pine off her deck. It swings blindly in mid-air as if seeking to touch some familiar object in this unfamiliar land, to remind it of the ice-bound mountain from which it was wrested.