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Show NO SPORT IN HUNTING SEAL Gathering In of the Helpless Crtatu Simply Evolves Itself nto ' Merciless 8laujhtcr. nuntlng the seal from the i storm-swept coast of Newfoundi is not sport; it Is toll, wllereb part the Newfoundlander wins h scanty measure of bread says Sm ' Moments. The hunt is a dull m J eons slaughter, scurrying m1l ! the swinging and thrust of an Iron shod trVf , uunln , blows, with a silent waste of lce 1 splashed with red at the end of It There is no sport in this, no! 13 thers any fear of hurt, for the seal pleads and whines like a child, even while the gaff is falling; but the chase li beset with multitudinous and nnfore. shadowed perils. Th9 wind gathers the ice Into floea and jams it m against the coast, an Immeasurable Jagged expanse of It Interspersed with plnlns; then the Newfoundlander takes his food and his goggles, and sets out from his little harbor, starting start-ing at midnight that he may come up with the pack at dawn. But the wind which sweeps the Ice in Inevitably sweeps it out again without warnln; In an hour, or a day or a week; nor does it pause to consider the situation of the men who are 20 miles off shore. It veers and freshens and drives the whole mass, grinding and heaving, far out. to sea, where it disperses it Into Its separate fragments. The lives of the hunters depend upon up-on the watchfulness of the attenuated line of lookouts, from the women on the headland to the first sentinel with-in with-in signaling distance. |