In the drive to Digby, twenty-one miles, we pass along all the ins and
outs of the shore of Annapolis Basin, finding the succession of views on
that curiously land-locked harbor a perfect study and delight, and more
picturesque than on the trip to the same place by steamer, as we
discover later.

There we see a bright-eyed, pretty little maiden, who wears a gay red
handkerchief in place of a hat, and makes a picture as she drives her
cow over a bit of moorland. Driver says she is "one of the French
people", and that her name is Thibaudia, which, with its English
signification (a kind of heath), seems appropriate for one living in
the wilds, and deliciously foreign and suggestive. We wonder if old
Crumplehorn understands French, and conclude that she is a well educated
animal, as she seems to obey directions without needing a touch of
willow branch to punctuate them.

Sometimes it seems that the names conferred
On mortals at baptism in this queer world
Seem given for naught but to spite 'em.
Mr. Long is short, Mr. Short is tall,
And who so meek as Mr. Maul?
Mr. Lamb's fierce temper is very well known,
Mr. Hope plods about with sigh and groan,--
"And so proceed ad infinitum"

At one point on our route, when we are passing through a lonely and
apparently uninhabited region, our jolly driver, "Manyul", remarks,
"Here's where Nobody lives."; and one replies, "Yes, evidently; and I
shouldn't think any one would wish to." But a turn of the road brings a
house in sight; and driver says, "That's his house, and his name is