Bluenose Ghosts by Helen Creighton Page A

trying to make some sense out of all the markings. I took tracings and photographs and sent them to the National Museum but there they remain, as much a mystery to scholars as they are to our fishermen. Mr. Doyle continued his story as a gentle wind blew in from the quiet sea and the sun shone upon us from a cloudless summer sky.
    â€œWith all these marks on the eastern end of the island we were sure there must be marks on the western end to give us our direction, but they couldn’t be found. But when I was a boy we were there one handsome day with a spring tide and at about half-tide I was on a clift. I see this pretty thing on the clift like a butterfly, only bigger. I went down and looked up at it. Its wings were opened but it never moved. I went in and told father and Uncle Joe to come and look. It was brown and was about two inches long. It had four wings and a looking-glass on each wing, and the wings were purple. It was the handsomest thing you’d ever want to see. I said, ‘I’m going to get that,’ but they said not to touch it. But later I thought, ‘I am going to get that,’ and I put my hat over it and where it rested were the letters no one had been able to find. I went into the camp and I said, ‘I got him and I’m going to put him in an old cigar box. I’m going to get a pin and stick through it so it won’t go away.’ It just laid there and never moved. Uncle Joe took his pipe and just touched it. It flew to the eastern end of the island and I after it, and then it flew to Black Point where the birds had gone and that’s the last we ever saw of it. We decided it must have come like the three birds to show us how to find the treasure.
    â€œOn the eastern rocks there were the numbers XIX, so we supposed that meant we should walk nineteen paces in a direct line from the eastern to the western clift. I was only eleven then but I’d been hearing treasure stories all my life. I went out about sundown and I took a long bolt with me. I measured off my nineteen paces and then I stuck the bolt down in the ground. I hit something, and it was half a grindstone. I dug away and felt something else and by and by came to an old French brogan, or shoe, and I got that up. The earth was all red around it. I suppose the shoe belonged to the man buried with the treasure. I dug a little spell longer but it was getting dark by then so I took the brogan and grindstone and showed them to the men. By and by I saw something coming and I thought it was a woman except that there wasn’t any woman out there and no way for one to get on the island without being seen. I tied the door shut to keep her out. We had two big Newfoundland dogs and two camps with turf all around. From just above where I had dug we heard an awful sound and the two dogs started and they’d drive their paws into the ground betwixt the two camps and they kept it up. It made a comical noise like a man or a woman, but not comical enough to make us want to keep it around any longer. It was either the dogs or the ghost all night, and when one stopped the other began. The next day they made me take the French brogan and the grindstone and bury them both in the hole and, for all I know, they’re there yet.”
    As we scrambled again over the rough weather-beaten rocks every detail of Mr. Doyle’s story was in my mind. I looked again at the numerals XIX and wondered if the fishermen’s interpretation had been right. The other markings were all initials that formed no word and therefore seemed to serve no purpose. We wandered on to the place where Mr. Doyle had dug and observed that the earth had been freshly turned. Perhaps it would be safe now, and the ghost’s vigil over. On the western end we saw where the butterfly had rested. I looked at the peaceful scene about me on this glorious summer day, and also at my companions. A friend, Mrs. Frank MacDonald from Dartmouth, was with me. The rest