and out poured the Sunday school, whose services had just ended.  On they came, dividing in the centre, and falling to the right and left about me, thirty or forty boys and girls, between the ages of seven and fifteen.  I looked at them in astonishment.  They all had fair skins, red cheeks, and clear eyes; they were all broad-shouldered, straight, and sturdy; the younger ones were more than sturdy,—­they were fat, from the ankles up.  But perhaps the most noticeable thing of all was the quiet, sturdy, unharassed expression which their faces wore; a look which is the greatest charm of a child’s face, but which we rarely see in children over two or three years old.  Boys of eleven or twelve were there, with shoulders broader than the average of our boys at sixteen, and yet with the pure, childlike look on their faces.  Girls of ten or eleven were there who looked almost like women,—­that is, like ideal women,—­simply because they looked so calm and undisturbed.  The Saxon coloring prevailed; three-fourths of the eyes were blue, with hair of that pale ash-brown which the French call “blonde cendree” Out of them all there was but one child who looked sickly.  He had evidently met with some accident, and was lame.  Afterward, as the congregation assembled, I watched the fathers and mothers of these children.  They, too, were broad-shouldered, tall, and straight, especially the women.  Even old women were straight, like the negroes one sees at the South, walking with burdens on their heads.

Five days later I saw in Halifax the celebration of the anniversary of the settlement of the province.  The children of the city and of some of the neighboring towns marched in “bands of hope” and processions, such as we see in the cities of the States on the Fourth of July.  This was just the opportunity I wanted.  It was the same here as in the country.  I counted on that day just eleven sickly-looking children; no more!  Such brilliant cheeks, such merry eyes, such evident strength; it was a scene to kindle the dullest soul.  There were scores of little ones there, whose droll, fat legs would have drawn a crowd in Central Park; and they all had that same, quiet, composed, well-balanced expression of countenance of which I spoke before, and of which it would be hard to find an instance in all Central Park.

Climate undoubtedly has something to do with this.  The air is moist, and the mercury rarely rises above 80 deg. or falls below 10 deg..  Also the comparative quiet of their lives helps to make them so beautiful and strong.  But the most significant fact to my mind is that, until the past year, there have been in Nova Scotia no public schools, comparatively few private ones; and in these there is no severe pressure brought to bear on the pupils.  The private schools have been expensive, consequently it has been very unusual for children to be sent to school before they were eight or nine years of age; I could not find a person who had ever known of a child’s