Perhaps you have thought, as I did before coming here, that fish are fish, all the world over. But in Newfoundland fish are cod. The existence of the other finny creatures in the sea is recognized, but they are referred to only by their proper names. There is a story that a Newfoundlander was asked if there were any fish in a certain stream.

“No, there are no fish in here,” was the reply, “nothing but trout.”

The history of Newfoundland is largely the story of its cod fisheries and the contests to possess them. Cabot reported to his royal master that the waters off the Newfoundland coast were so thick with fish as to impede navigation. Not long ago cod were so plentiful that dogs caught them alive in the water as they were crowded upon the beach by the pressure of the thousands behind, and to-day the cod fisheries here are the largest of their kind in the world. Nine tenths of the people of Newfoundland still make their living either directly or indirectly from fish, and eighty per cent. of the export trade comes from them. At one time dried cod formed the national currency, and debts were paid in kind. This fall, as for many years, thousands of fishermen are paying for their spring outfits, and for flour and molasses and pork on which they will subsist during the coming winter, with fish.

Within a year after Cabot’s voyage, fishermen from Devonshire, England, were on the Newfoundland coast, and several years later Portuguese and French fishermen were competing with them for the right to share in the phenomenal catches. Though claimed by the British by right of discovery, Newfoundland became a kind of “no man’s land.” Its coast was frequented by hordes of daring men, partly fishermen, partly traders, most of whom were not above a little piracy now and then. In 1578, four hundred fishing vessels were coming here every year. Of these nearly half were French. The English dominated even then, and a quarter of a century later ten thousand men and boys from the west counties of England were spending their summers in the fisheries, as catchers at sea and dryers on shore.

It is estimated that the annual catch of the English vessels was worth one hundred thousand pounds, a huge sum in those days. The “Merchant Adventurers” of England, who gained most of the profit, tried to set up a monopoly. They did their utmost to drive the French from the fishing grounds and shore stations, and discouraged all attempts to colonize Newfoundland, spreading false reports that the country was desolate and uninhabitable. At one time there were laws forbidding a fishing vessel from taking any settlers to Newfoundland and requiring it to bring back to England every man it carried away. The “Fishing Admirals,” as the ancient profiteers of that industry were called, even secured an order to burn the homes of the fishermen on shore. Indeed, it was not until 1711 that England changed her cruel policy toward Newfoundland and organized the colony under a naval government.

In the meantime, bitter struggles with the French had been going on. The French recognized in Newfoundland a key to their possessions in Canada along the Gulf and River of St. Lawrence. They succeeded in gaining a foothold on the south shore of Newfoundland, and from there frequently attacked the English settlements to the north, until the Treaty of Utrecht compelled them to give up their holdings. All that remains of French possessions in this part of the world are the islands of Miquelon and St. Pierre just south of Newfoundland. With the prohibition wave that swept over North America, the port of St. Pierre has had a great boom as headquarters of the bootlegging fleets of the North Atlantic. It has grown rich by taxing the liquor traffic, so much so, in fact, that St. John’s is casting envious eyes at its island neighbour, and making plans to get into this profitable trade.

I had my first glimpse of the native cod as I entered St. John’s harbour. Just as our steamer passed a motor dory lying off shore, one of the men in her caught a big fish. He pulled it out of the water, and after holding it up to our view, clubbed it on the head and threw it into the boat. To-day I visited one of the fishing villages, where I saw the day’s catches landed and talked with the fishermen.

I took a motor in St. John’s and drove out to Waterford Valley, up over the gray rocky hills into the back country. On the heights I found a blue pond, just below it another, and then another, like so many steps leading from the heights down to the sea. The last pond ended in a great wooden flume running down the rocky gorge to a little power station that supplies electricity to the city of St. John’s.

Here I stopped to take in the view. Before me was a little bay, perhaps a half mile long and a quarter of a mile wide, where the stream from the hill ponds empties into the ocean. This was Petty Harbour, a typical Newfoundland “outport.” On both sides of the harbour rocky walls rose almost straight up to a height of three or four hundred feet. The only outlets were the waters of the tiny bay and the gorge through which I came. There was literally no level land, only a few narrow shelves and terraces along the sides of the hills. There were no streets, only a winding roadway down the slope. The lower portion was too narrow for our motor, so that I had to go part of the way down on foot. The houses were placed every which way on the steep hillsides. Most of them had tiny dooryards, with a patch of grass and sometimes a few flowers in front. Behind them, or at the sides, were other patches of green, on some of which small black and white goats, wearing pokes about their necks, were feeding. Small as were the houses, each was neatness itself and shiny with paint. Every one of the hundred or so houses was built by its occupant or his father before him. Indeed, I am prepared to believe, after what I have seen, that the Newfoundland fisherman is the world’s greatest “handy man.” He builds not only his house, but also his boats, landing stages, and fish-drying platforms; he makes his own nets, raises his own vegetables, and often has a sheep or two to furnish wool, which his wife will spin and weave into a suit of clothes or a jersey.

Walk along with me the rest of the way down to the waterside. You must step carefully on the path that leads over and between the ridges of out-cropping rock. Behind us a troop of youngsters are proving themselves true citizens of the kingdom of boyhood by tooting the horn of our motor. I notice many children playing about, and I ask where they go to school. In reply two little frame buildings are pointed out on the hillsides, one the Church of England school, and the other maintained by the Catholics. The children we see look happy and well fed, and the little girls especially are neatly dressed and attractive.

But here is a fisherman, drying cod, who offers to show us about. With him we clamber down to the nearest stage, built out over the rocks, its far end resting in water that is deep enough for the boats. The stages are built of spruce poles and look like cliff-dwellers’ homes. At the end nearest the water is a little landing platform, with steps leading down to the motor dory moored alongside.

A boat has come in with a load of fish. They are speared one by one and tossed up to the landing stage, while one of the men starts cleaning them to show us how it is done. He first cuts the throat to the backbone, breaks off the head against the edge of the bench, and then rips open the belly. He tosses the liver to the table and the other organs to the floor, cuts out the greater part of the backbone, and throws the split, flattened-out cod into a tub at his feet. It is all done in a few seconds.

Outside there is now a great heap of cod. This fish has a gray-greenish back, a white belly, and a great gaping mouth lined with a broad band of teeth so fine that to the touch they feel like a file. One big fellow a yard long weighs, we are told, perhaps twenty-five pounds, but most of them will average but ten or twelve pounds.

These fish were caught in a net, or trap. When set in the water the cod trap measures about sixty feet square. It is moored in the sea near the shore. The fish swim into the enclosure, are caught within its walls, and cannot make their way out. The size of the meshes is limited by law, so that the young fish may escape. Three fourths of the Newfoundland cod are taken in this manner. Fish traps may cost from six hundred to one thousand dollars each, and making them is the chief winter job of the fishermen.

Sometimes the cod are caught with trawls, or lines, perhaps three or four thousand feet long, with short lines tied on at every six feet. The short lines carry hooks, which are baited one by one, and the whole is then set in the ocean with mooring buoys at each end. The trawls are hauled up every day to remove the fish that have been caught, and to bait up again.

I had thought a fisherman’s work done when he brought in his catch, but that is really only the beginning. The Newfoundland fisherman has nothing he can turn into money until his fish are salted and dried. The drying process may take a month or longer if the weather is bad. It is called “making” the fish. The flat split fish are spread out upon platforms called “flakes.” The sun works the salt down into the flesh, at the same time removing the moisture. Every evening each fish must be picked up and put in a pile under cover, and then re-spread on the flakes in the morning. The children are a great help in this part of the work.

It is in the perfection of the drying, rather than by size, that fish are graded for the market. At one of the fish packing wharves in St. John’s, I saw tons of dried cod stacked up like so much cord wood. They all looked alike to me, but the manager said:

“Now, the fish in this pile are for Naples, those in that for Spain, and those on the other side of the room will be sent to Brazil. It would never do to mix them, as our customers in each country have their own taste. Some like their fish hard, and some soft, and there are other differences we have to keep in mind as we sort the fish and grade them for export. The poorest fish, those you see in the corner, are for the West Indies. The people there nearly live on our fish, which will keep in their hot climate, but they can’t afford to buy the best quality.”

Newfoundland exports more than one hundred and twenty million pounds of dried cod every year. Brazil, Italy, Spain, and Portugal take about ninety million pounds, while the West Indies, Canada, Greece, and the United States absorb the balance. The fish are exported in casks each containing about two and a half quintals, or two hundred and eighty pounds.

While the shore fisheries account for most of the annual Newfoundland catch, there are two other ways of taking cod. The first is the “bank fishery,” in which schooners go off to the Grand Banks where they put out men in small boats to fish with hook and line until a shipload is caught. The fish are cleaned and salted on board, but are dried on shore. The crews of the schooners usually share in the catch, as in our own Gloucester fishing fleets. The third kind is the Labrador fishery. Sometimes as many as nine hundred schooners will spend the summer on the Labrador coast, fishing off shore, and drying the catches on the beach. Whole families take part in this annual migration. Labrador fish do not, however, bring as good a price as Banks or offshore fish.

The prosperity of the Newfoundlanders depends every year on the price of cod. This may range from three dollars a quintal to the record prices of fourteen and fifteen dollars during the World War. Just now the price is depressed, and Newfoundland is feeling competition from the Norwegians, who are underselling them in the western European and Mediterranean markets. Consequently, many Newfoundlanders, especially the young people, are emigrating to the United States. Some of the men go to New England and engage in the Massachusetts fisheries. Others ship on merchant vessels, while the girls are attracted by high wages paid in our stores, offices, and factories.

I have made some inquiries about the earnings of the Newfoundland fisherman, and find his net cash income amounts to but three or four hundred dollars a year. While he builds his own boat, he has to buy his engine, gasoline, and oil. He must buy twine and pitch for his nets, cord and hooks for his baited lines, and salt for pickling. A fisherman usually figures on making enough from the cod livers and their oil to pay his salt bill. The bones and entrails and also the livers after the oil has been removed are used as fertilizer.

The fisherman usually has no other source of income than his catch, and during the winter he does little except prepare for the next season. He goes in debt to the merchant who furnishes his outfit and the supplies for his family. His catch for the year may or may not bring as much as the amount he owes, but he must deliver it, at the current price, to the firm that gave him credit. This system accounts for the big stores in St. John’s, some of which have made a great deal of money. The merchants render a real service in financing the fishermen, whom they carry through the lean years, but there are those who believe the credit system has outlived its usefulness.

Some years ago a farmer-fisherman-mechanic named William Coaker organized the Fishermen’s Protective Union, with local councils in the outports. The union organized coöperative companies that now buy and sell fish, build ships, and handle supplies of all kinds. It even built a water-power plant to furnish electricity at cost to light the men’s homes. A new town, called Port Union, was developed on the northeast coast. This has become the centre of the Union activities, and there its organizer, now Sir William Coaker, spends his time. The Union publishes a daily paper in St. John’s. Its editor tells me that in the last ten years the dividend rate paid by the F. P. U. companies was ten per cent. for eight years, eight per cent. for one year, and none at all for only one year. The Union went into politics, and for three elections has had eleven members in the lower house. By combination with other groups this bloc has held the balance of power. While the Union has a strong voice in the government, the conservative business houses seem to be the dominant influence here in St. John’s, where, quite naturally, the fishermen’s organization finds little favour.

St. John’s is the centre for the Newfoundland sealing industry. This is not the seal that yields my lady’s fine furs, but the hair seal, which is killed chiefly for its fat, although the skin is used to make bags, pocketbooks, and other articles of leather. The oil made from the fat is used as an illuminant, a lubricant, and also for some grades of margarine.

The annual seal hunt starts from St. John’s on March 13th. The sealing steamers carry from two hundred to three hundred and fifty men each, packed aboard like sardines in a can. The vessels make for the great ice floes off the northeast coast, and it is on the ice that the seals are taken. The animals spend the winter in waters farther south, but assemble in enormous herds each January and start north toward the ice. Within forty-eight hours after reaching the ice-field, some three hundred thousand mother seals give birth to as many babies. The baby seals gain weight at the rate of four pounds a day, and rapidly take on a coating of fat about two and a half inches thick. When they are six weeks old, they leave their parents and start swimming north. It is a matter of record that the parents reach the ice and the young are born in almost the same spot in the ocean, and on almost the same day, year after year.

I visited one of the sealers. It happened to be the Terra Nova, the ship in which Captain Scott explored the Antarctic. It was a black craft, designed to work in the ice-fields and carry the maximum number of men and seals. I held in my hands one of the six-foot poles, called “bats,” with which the seals are clubbed to death on the ice. Once the ship reaches the ice-pack, the hunting parties scramble overboard and make a strike for the seals. The ice is usually rough and broken, and a man must make sure that he can get back to his ship. Each hunter kills as many seals as he can, strips off the skin and layer of fat, and leaves the carcass on the ice. The skins and fat are brought back to the ship. The baby seals are the ones that are preferred, for since they feed only on their mothers’ milk, the oil from their fat is the best. Seal hunting is exciting and dangerous work while it lasts, though from a sporting standpoint baby seals can hardly be considered big game.

The start of the annual seal hunt is a great occasion for St. John’s. Two thirds of the proceeds of each catch are divided among the crew, the steamer owner taking the balance. It is an old saying in Newfoundland that “a man will go hunting seals when gold will not draw him.” The ships usually return by the middle of April. In a good year each man may get about one hundred and fifty dollars as his share.

From one hundred and fifty to three hundred thousand seals are brought into St. John’s every year. At the factories gangs of skinners strip off the fat from the hides as fast as they are landed. Sometimes one man will strip as many as six hundred and forty skins in a day. The fat is chopped up and steam cooked, and the oil drawn off into casks. The skins are salt dressed.

One might think the seals would be wiped out by such methods, but the herd does not decrease and remains at about one million from year to year. The seals live largely on codfish, each one eating an average of four every day. The estimated consumption of cod by the seals is fourteen times greater than the number caught by the fishermen.