is to a river. In itself a sanctuary is a natural "zoo". But it is much more than a "zoo". It can only contain a certain number of animals. Its surplus must overflow to stock surrounding areas. And it constitutes a refuge for all species whose lines of migration pass through it. So its value in the preservation of desirable wild life is not to be denied. Of course, sanctuaries occasionally develope troubles of their own; for if man interferes with the balance of nature in one way he must be prepared to interfere in others. But all experience shows that an easily worked system will ensure a maximum of gain and a minimum of loss.

Up till quite recently Nature had her own animal sanctuaries in vast and sparsely settled lands like Labrador. But now she has none. There is no place left where wild life is safe from men who use all the modern means of destruction without being bound by any of the modern means of conservation. And this is nowhere truer than in Labrador, though the area of the whole peninsula is equal to eleven Englands, while, even at the busiest season along the coast, there is not one person to more than every ten square miles. Since the white man went there at least three-quarters of the forests have been burnt, and sometimes the soil burnt too. Wild life of all kinds has been growing rapidly less. The walrus is receding further and further north. Seals are diminishing. Whales are beginning to disappear. Fur-bearing animals can hardly hold their own much longer in face of the ever increasing demand for their pelts and the more systematic invasion of their range. The opening up of the country in the north will mean the extinction of the great migrating herd of barren-ground caribou, unless protection is enforced. The coast birds are going fast. Some very old men can still remember the great auk, which is now as extinct as the dodo. Elderly men have eaten the Labrador duck, which has not been seen alive for thirty years. And young men will certainly see the end of the Hudsonian and Eskimo curlews very soon, under present conditions. The days of commercial "egging" on a large scale are over, because eggs of the final lay were taken like the rest, and the whole bird life was depleted below paying quantities. But "egging" still goes on in other ways, especially at the hands of Newfoundlanders, who are wantonly wasteful in their methods, unlike the coast people, who only take what the birds will replace. The Newfoundlanders and other strangers gather all the eggs they see, put them into water, and throw away every one that floats. Thus many more bird lives are destroyed than eggs are eaten or sold, because schooners appear towards the end of the regular laying season, when most of the eggs are about to hatch out—and these are the ones that float. But even greater destruction is done when a schooner stays several days in the same place. For then the crew go round, first smashing every egg they see, and afterwards gathering every egg they see, because they know the few they find the second time must have been newly laid.

Many details were given of other forms of destruction, and some details of the revolting cruelties practised there, as in every other place where wild life is grossly abused instead of being sanely used. All classes of legitimate human interest were dealt with in turn; and it was shown that the present system—or want of system—was bad for each one: bad for such wild life as must still be used for necessary food, bad for every kind of business in the products of wild life, bad for the future of sport, bad for the pursuits of science, and bad for the prospects of wild "zoos". The Address ended with a plea for conservation, and pointed out that the only class of people who could possibly be benefitted under present conditions were those who were ready to destroy both the capital and interest of any natural resources for the sake of snatching a big and immediate, but really criminal, profit.

The Address was sent out