Ice-Breaking Car Ferry Has Passenger Quarters

The `Prince Edward Island`an ice-breaking steamer recently built in England for service in the Straits of Northumberland, Canada, is a craft of unusual type, since it is designed not only only to do the work of an ice breaker but that of a car ferry and a ferry for passengers, and other miscellaneous traffic as well. The straits seperate Prince Edward Island from the mainland of New Brunswick and Nova Scotia, and like most of the waterways in this latitude are icebound during the the greater part of the long winter.

At the narrow point in the straits, where the boat is to operate, the distance from the mainland to Prince Edward Island is about nine miles. With a clear channel the passage is made in about 40 minutes, but with the channel clogged with ice the passage may require several hours. On account of this the passengers quarters include a dining room and are comfortably and elegantly furnished throughout. The vessel is 285 ft. long and has a mean draft of 18 ft, while the propelling machinery is capable of developing 7,000 hp. The load carried by the vessel, including coal, is about 650 tons. The bow is is so shaped that it splits the ice and rides it down at the same time. One of the novel features of the craft is a propeller placed a the bow. This propeller is used not only in backing into the dock, but is a valuable aid in the work of breaking up the ice, since it draws some of the water from beneath the ice and thus weakens its support.

Islanders crossing the Northumberland Strait in winter.

Every winter the inhabitants of populous Prince Edward Island, separated from Novia Scotia by Northumberland strait, 7.5 miles wide, are cut off off from communications with the mainland almost entirely for several months. Supplies of all kinds, business. social intercourse- all must wait wait till the ice breaks up and the blockade resulting is over. The inconvenience is so great that the subject of making a tunnel under the strait for the use of trains is being urged and it is probable that the Dominion government will act upon it it and forward the undertaking. Such a tunnel would cost approximately, $10,000,000 and require six years to construct.

If built it may lead to constructing a tunnel connecting England and France.

Prince County

North Parish:  Lot 1, Lot 2, & Lot 3

Egmont Parish: Lot 4, Lot 5, Lot 6, & Lot 7

Halifax Parish:  Lot 8, Lot 9, Lot 10, Lot 11, & Lot 12

Richmond Parish:  Lot 13, Lot 14, Lot 15, Lot 16, & Lot 17

St. David’s Parish:  Prince Royalty Lot 18, Lot 19, Lot 25, Lot 26, Lot 27, & Lot 28

Queen’s County

Grenville Parish:  Lot 20, Lot 21, Lot 22, Lot 23, & Lot 67

Hillsboro Parish:  Lot 29, Lot 30, Lot 31, & Lot 65

Charlotte Parish:  Queens Royalty, Lot 24, Lot 32, Lot 33, & Lot 34

Bedford Parish:  Lot 35, Lot 36, Lot 37, Lot 48, & Lot 49

St. John’s Parish:  Lot 50, Lot 57, Lot 58,  Lot 60, Lot 62

Kings County

St. Patrick’s Parish:  Lot 38, Lot 39, Lot 40, Lot 41, & Lot 42

East Parish:  Lot 43, Lot 44, Lot 45, Lot 46, & Lot 47

St. George’s Parish:  Kings Royalty, Lot 51, Lot 52, Lot 53, Lot 54, Lot 55, Lot 56, & Lot 66

St. Andrew’s Parish:  Lot 59, Lot 61, Lot 63, & Lot 64

Yet they were of a different kind,
The names that stilled your childish play,
They have gone about the world like wind,
But little time had they to pray
For whom the hangman’s rope was spun,
And what, God help us, could they save?
Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone,
It’s with O’Leary in the grave.

Was it for this the wild geese spread
The grey wing upon every tide;
For this that all that blood was shed,
For this Edward Fitzgerald died,
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,
All that delirium of the brave?
Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone,
It’s with O’Leary in the grave.

Yet could we turn the years again,
And call those exiles as they were
In all their loneliness and pain,
You’d cry, ‘Some woman’s yellow hair
Has maddened every mother’s son’:
They weighed so lightly what they gave.
But let them be, they’re dead and gone,
They’re with O’Leary in the grave.

He snatched a flower and sniffed its scent,
And waved it toward the sunset sky.
Some old sweet rapture through him went
And kindled in his bloodshot eye.
I turned — and inly burned
With joy that one so low should rise so high.

To them Slainthé!

I speak of the old men,
The wrinkle-rutted,
Who dodder about foot-weary -
For their day is as the day that has been and is no more -
Who warm their feet by the fire,
And recall memories of the times that are gone;
Who kneel in the lamplight and pray
For the peace that has been theirs -
And who beat one dry-veined hand against another
Even in the sun-
For the coldness of death is on them.

I speak of the old women
Who danced to yesterday’s fiddle
And dance no longer.
They sit in a quiet place and dream
And see visions
Of what is to come,
Of their issue,
Which has blossomed to manhood and womanhood -
And seeing thus
They are happy
For the day that was leaves no regrets,
And peace is theirs
And perfection.

I speak of the strong men
Who shoulder their burdens in the hot day,
Who stand on the market-place
And bargain in loud voices,
Showing their stock to the world.
Straight the glance of their eyes -
Broad-shouldered,
Supple.
Under their feet the holms blossom,
The harvest yields.
The their path is of prosperity.

I speak of the women,
Strong hipped, full-bosomed,
Who drive the cattle to graze at dawn,
Who milk the cows at dusk.
Grace in their homes,
And in the crowded ways
Modest and seemly -
Mother of children!

I speak of the children
Of the many townlands,
Blossoms of the Bogland,
Flowers of the Valley,
Who know not yesterday, nor to-morrow,
And are happy,
The pride of those who have begot them.

And thus it is,
Every and always,
In Ardara, the Rosses and Inishkeel -
Here, as elsewhere,
The Weak, the Strong, and the Blossoming -
And thus my kindred.

To them Slainthé!

The Minstrel fell! But the foeman’s chain
Could not bring that proud soul under;
The harp he lov’d ne’er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder;
And said “No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and brav’ry!
Thy songs were made for the pure and free,
They shall never sound in slavery!”

Mór mo ghlóir:
Mé a rug Cú Chulainn cróga.

Mór mo náir:
Mo chlann féin a dhíol a máthair.

Mór mo phian:
Bithnaimhde do mo shíorchiapadh.

Mór mo bhrón:
D’éag an dream inar chuireas dóchas.

Mise Éire:
Uaigní mé ná an Chailleach* Bhéarra.

I am Ireland:
I am older than the old woman* of Beare.

Great my glory:
I who bore Cuchulainn, the brave.

Great my shame:
My own children who sold their mother.

Great my pain:
My irreconcilable enemy who harrasses me continually…

Great my sorrow
That crowd, in whom I placed my trust, died.

I am Ireland:
I am lonelier than the old woman* of Beare.

And walking longside an old weir
Of my people’s, where nothing stirs–only the shadowed
Leaden flight of a heron up the lean air–
I went unmanly with grief, knowing how my father,
Happy though captive in years, walked last with me there.

Yes, happy in Meath with me for a day
He walked, taking stock of herds hid in their own breathing;
And naming colts, gusty as wind, once steered by his hand,
Lightnings winked in the eyes that were half shy in greeting
Old friends–the wild blades, when he gallivanted the land.

For that proud, wayward man now my heart breaks–
Breaks for that man whose mind was a secret eyrie,
Whose kind hand was sole signet of his race,
Who curbed me, scorned my green ways, yet increasingly loved me
Till Death drew its grey blind down his face.

And yet I am pleased that even my reckless ways
Are living shades of his rich calms and passions–
Witnesses for him and for those faint namesakes
With whom now he is one, under yew branches,
Yes, one in a graven silence no bird breaks.