Literary Works
The Elliston region is privileged to have so much of its history recorded in print. In fact, there have been several books that has been written about the community. All are available at the QEII Library of Memorial University of Newfoundland and other sources. Details on each follow:
"A Measure of Success: The Story of Elliston" by Mr. Neal K. Tucker:
This book is a revised second edition, updating his previous book to include a full 200 years (1806-2006) of Elliston/Maberly history.
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"A Measure of Success: The Story of Elliston 1806-2003" by Mr. Neal K. Tucker:
This book provides details on the history of the Elliston/Maberly area from 1806-2003.
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"Elliston - The Story of a Newfoundland Outport" by Mr. Doug Cole:
A collection of historical data pertaining to Elliston from the beginning to confederation with Canada.
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"Wandering Thoughts and Solitary Hours (1846)" by Rev. Philip Tocque:
This book was written by Rev. Tocque while he was stationed at Bird Island Cove (Elliston) in the 1830s.
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"More Than 50%: Woman's Life in a Newfoundland Outport" by Mrs. Hilda Chaulk Murray:
This book provides an opinion on what what life was like in the communities of Elliston, Neck, and Maberly, during the period 1900-1950, with special emphasis on the role of women.
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"Of Boats on the Collar: How It Was In One Newfoundland Fishing Community" by Mrs. Hilda Chaulk Murray:
This book describes where people lived in each section of the community, where their fishing rooms, homes, and gardens were, the early boats used in Elliston, the methods they used for catching cod, how the fish were handled in the stage and on the flake, the motorboats and their builders, the tools used in boatbuilding, and how boats were built.
"The Families of Elliston" by Mr. Doug Cole (not pictured above):
This book details all the family names of Elliston.
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"A Pilgrimage of Faith: A History of the Methodist Church, 1814-1925 and the United Church of Canada, 1925-1990" by Mrs. Mildred Gough Winsor (not pictured above):
This book contains a collection of information pertaining to Elliston and the United Church.
Local Poetry
As with local literature there is a great amount of poetry that both tells our history and provides an insight into our cultural heritage. Here are a few excerpts from three local people.
Mr. Aubrey Pearce (1894-1977)
Maberly We hear this spoken by some folk Maberly soon will be A ghost town with its industry The Salt Cod Fishery. No stages, boats nor fishing gear Are seen along the shore The old folks that once caught the cod Are gone for evermore. A lovely spot is Maberly This hamlet by the sea In summer when the tourist come They love its scenery. The marshes and the barrens too Abound with berries wild A source of income for the folks And every boy and child. People come from near and far Those berries for to pick With bakeapples in the early fall They fill their buckets quick. The partridgeberry industry Alike for rich and poor Is better here than anywhere Along the Eastern shore. The blueberry is scarce in quantity Is still a source of wealth And makes sweet wine for Christmas time It's good too for one's health. The folks grow all the crops they need The land is fertile here Potatoes are as good as seen At any country fair. Two miles of road connect this place To the town of Elliston Its upkeep by the government Is very small when done. The school bus no doubt cost a bit Of dough to make it go And then there is the snow plow That clears the road of snow. The electric lights along the road And in our homes likewise Are paid when due, we never fink Though some say people try. The facts that's stated here are true We never will agree To end our days away from home In some locality. We have good water near at hand The best that can be found And grazing land is plentiful For cattle all around. There's tons of hay that could be cut For grass is plenty here Enough to feed a thousand sheep The people do declare. Nature has provided us With codfish in galore And berries that are plentiful No distance from our door. Some of the folks that once lived here Have settled now in town They thought electric lights Would never get around. Now when they come to visit here And see the old homestead They view with envy those who stayed Although they were in need. Centralization may be best When things are handled right But dumping people everywhere Is sure an awful sight. What good is it to leave a place Where plenty can be found And live one's days in poverty Within some busy town? To move the houses from this place Much money would be spent Enough to buy an airplane And cross the continent. They say this twentieth century Will see the end of time If this is so we then will be Within some other clime. So when you look at it this way And others stated here Let us enjoy our heritage The place we love so dear. If Joey and his government Would lend a helping hand We'd make this place a paradise The best in Newfoundland. Canon Bailey named this place From Bonavista town A Godly man who loved to preach To people all around. We love it more because of him And all of us agree There is no better place to live Than here in Maberly. Aubrey Pearce (1894-1977) Maberly Resident
Sandy Cove Sandy Cove in Elliston Bright In Summer is a lovely sight When western winds blow from the land People play there on the sand Men and women, and children too Spend many hours out in the blue They love with feelings of delight To battle within its waters bright. The waves that roll in from the sea Fall on the sand so gently That little children love to play Within its waters all the day And parents watch their antics there While lying on the sand so fair They love to lie there in the sun After their swimming hours are done. Built by nature and not by man A wall of stone keeps back the sand The sand so gentle to the feet To walk on it is quite a treat The sea there isn't very deep The sand don't hurt the tenderest feet A swimmer's joy in summer time The very best place one could find. The brook that wanders to the sea Pass through beautiful scenery With flowering shrubs of every heu And trees so tall obstruct the view People come from near and far Pedestrians and by motor car To stay awhile and enjoy the fun With others playing in the sun. There's many a trail between the trees Where lovers wander and the breeze Which blows so soft, perfume the air With scent of balsam everywhere People once tried to take the stone Which nature placed there on her own This would have been a big disgrace To ruin such a lovely place. There are lots of trout that one can hook Within the waters of the brook And berries grow profusely there The dewberry, and the squash so rare The raspberry and blueberry too Are sweetened by the morning dew Nature put forth a lavish hand To build a background for the sand. When Summer with her breezes mild Blow o'er the land, both man and child Love to return to this dear spot Which none have in the years forgot What say this place we now rename For it’s become a place of fame? I hope with me you'll all agree To christen it Happy Valley. Aubrey Pearce (1894-1977) Maberly Resident
The Partridgeberry Ground This is the place where the pickers do gather When the berries are ripe and the time comes around; All kinds of figures, and some may have pickers, Congregate here where the berries abound. There's people from Lance Cove, and some from the harbour In cars and in trucks, they go berrying around; All in a hurry to pick the nice berries That grow on the barrens of the Maberly ground. There's men of all ages and boys in the bargain There's Old Uncle Neddy as spry as a hound. Hello! Holy cow! Sure, here he comes now A-laughing to go to the berry-picking ground. Says Tom to his brother, "Just look at the berries All torn up and scattered to heck, I'll be bound, Hundreds of gallons torn up by the talons Of some crazy pickers on the berry-picking ground." "Yes, boy," says Sammy, "sure it is a pity To spoil all the berries before they are sound. I says me hearty, there should be a party To see to our rights on the berry-picking ground.." Each evening at sunset you'll see the folks coming All loaded with berries, the best can be found; A big load to carry, though none of them tarry; They want to get home from the berry-picking ground. When using the picker to get at the berries, You crawl on your knees, and scramble around, And the juice of the berry as red as a cherry Is found on all pants on the berry-picking ground. A nice bit of money is made from the berries Which grow and are picked on Maberly ground, But a good deal more would be got, I am sure, If picked when just ripe on the berry-picking ground. The partridgeberry patches are sometimes quite handy, But oft-times you find them a long way from town. With a big load to carry, be they Tom, Dick, or Harry, They find it quite tough on the berry-picking ground. If you ever feel inclined to go berry picking, Leave your "Sunday go to meetings" at home in the town; And if you are lazy, and a little bit crazy, You'd better keep clear of the berry-picking ground. Aubrey Pearce (1894-1977) Maberly Resident
The Hand-Line Fisherman In the little coves and inlets All along our rugged shore There beside the mighty ocean With its mighty thunderous roar Dwell a race of hardy seamen Facing danger every day Fishing for the wily codfish On the grounds and in the bay. In their little boats and dories They will venture far from land Often times without an engine Just the brawny arms of man They must row their boats to safety Fighting heavy wind and sea Often hours without a let up Toiling hard and meanfully. Those with motorboats may linger Longer on the fishing ground Depending solely on their engines Fishing all the season round Some with trawls & more with hand-lines Catching cod the whole day through Thinking nothing of the hardships They endure while on the blue. From the dawn ‘till dark of evening One can see those little boats When you're looking on the ocean Just like tiny toys afloat Maybe you may think and wonder If a stranger to the shore At the courage of those seamen And the hardships they endure. They must face all winds and weather Chilly fog and bitter cold All day long they rise the hand-lines Or the trawls those seamen bold Depending solely on the codfish They must fish the season round For the life blood of their families Be there on the fishing ground. Tried and tested on the ocean Every boy becomes a man He must do his share of labour On the sea and on the land For the fisher is part farmer When on land he toils all day Growing crops to feed his family And to help his debts to pay. I remember in my boyhood Of an uncle old of mine He would venture on the ocean For to fish with hook and line In a little fifteen footer Rigged with mainsail jib and boom Tossed about just like a toy boat Out there in the ocean's gloom. I can still recall to memory Many times we gazed to see Wondering where could be this brave man With his boat of mystery When a speck near the horizon Would unfold before our eyes Battling bravely with the rough seas And the wind from stormy skies. Just a lone man on the ocean In a boat so weak and small Braving seas and stormy weather Catching cod with line and trawl There is no need to tell you further Of the bravery of this man And his equals there are plenty In the Isle of Newfoundland. What a thrill it was to watch him With the tiller in his hand Keeping full the jib and mainsail When be backed from off the land No matter what the kind of weather When the other boats could go Nothing daunted he would follow Though the stormy wind did blow. Many are the tales and stories Told of bravery on the sea And the sufferings of our seamen Are wrote down in history None can doubt their pluck & courage They have stood the greatest test On the bloody fields of battle They were "Better Than The Best." Aubrey Pearce (1894-1977) Maberly Resident
An Act of Bravery Come listen to me and you shall hear A tale of long ago When I was just a child-in-arms ‘Twas by my father told. He was on the ice one day With his brother and two more When the wind shifted to the west And drove the ice off shore. They managed each to get a tow And soon were homeward bent To try to reach the inside ice That was their full intent. They knew the ice had left the shore The wind blew from the land But hope still lingered in the breast Of each and every man. Undaunted still they struggled on Until - ‘tis sad to say - They knew all hope had vanished They were drifting out the bay. With hope of rescue now all gone The largest pan was found To hold themselves and all their seals While drifting o'er the ground. The wind which though light at first By now blew half a gale And carried them away from land Just like a boat with sail. Imagine now then if you can The thoughts of every man For not one of the entire crew Expected to reach the land. They did not know they had been seen By someone on the shore Who went to look for succor Twelve weary miles or more. He travelled all along the shore To try and bring them aid And found in Catalina Courageous men indeed. The man that travelled up the shore Those sealers' lives to save Was Jobey Cole of Elliston A man both true and brave. To Little Catalina menfolk He told the sealers' plight Who knew the task before them Was a hard one to fight. But soon a boat was fitted out And manned by seaman brave To try to rescue those poor souls Out on the ocean wave. No cowardly soul was in that boat Their lives and sealers too Were in the hands of God above So thought each of the crew. A gale of wind was blowing The sea was getting rough To try to reach those weary men They found the going tough. With all their strength they pushed her through, until they reached the pan And there received with joyful shouts The hand of every man. Sandy Johnson was the skipper (I do not know the crew) But each and every man of them Was loyal, brave and true. While homeward bout the sealers told Those brave men of their plight How once the pan they had just left Went to pieces in their sight. They had no thought of rescue But when they saw the boat Come from the land toward them Their hearts were filled with hope. There was no motor in this boat. To aid them in their plight They only had the brawny arms Of men with oars to fight. Half frozen were those sealers Before they reached the shore Wet through with spray that came aboard Though some did man the oar. Sometimes no headway could they make The wind being not yet o'ver But after many weary hours At last they reached the shore. Happy were those sealers then Their families soon to see The places they belonged to Were the Neck and Maberly. We cannot praise too highly The courage of this crew. Who gave their all at duty's call The best that man can do. Long may they be remembered Long may this writing stand A tribute to a gallant crew That brought those men to land. Aubrey Pearce (1894-1977) Maberly Resident
Mr. Ross Pearce (1916-2001)
A Surprising Fishing Trip The morning about forty years ago The summer had been near spun The fish had been so very scarce Father said, "We'll have another run" We were fishing from the cove of Maberly That lies on the straight shore When fishing on the fishing grounds It's exposed to all winds that roar There is no land that you can reach Just the broad Atlantic ocean behind You have to face these winds that blow This is the verdict all the time We soon prepared our little boat That was only some sixteen feet long Oars we had to power this boat A main-sail when winds were strong We rowed out to our fishing spot About two miles from land This is the berth we commonly used Chalky-cliff was its name The morning had been fairly good Some small clouds to the west To think a real cloud squall would appear You would have never guessed The fishing had been very poor We were using lines and bait Father said, "They may come along We'll set awhile and wait" I glanced at the Western sky The dark clouds began to roll I put on my oil-skin jacket It seemed to be getting cold Then I saw father fill his pipe He was looking out to sea Did not seem to see the clouds That were coming towards me He had been going fishing Since he was eight years old Never seemed to heed the clouds Nor the strong winds that blow Then I said to father boldly "That's a gloomy sky in there" He turned around very slowly And said "perhaps the wind will veer" The wind soon sprang upon us Not so hard when it began We put the oars across the boat To try and reach the land First we made little head way Then we met the full squall Our boat seemed to go astern And hail stones began to fall Then father said to me again "Watch the marks on the Southern land" I said "I am doing this" But not a bit we can gain. For about fifteen minutes the winds tossed us We rowed with all our might So suddenly it was clear again And not a cloud in sight We rolled into the nearest shore And was tired as could be Then put the kettle on the fire And got a cup of tea Refreshed by the cup of tea We then rowed down the shore Safe home again in the cove What could you ask for more. Ross Pearce (1916-2001) Maberly Resident
Olden School Years When pupils attended school About fifty years ago The hardships they endured That's not yet been told The schools that they attend Were very poor you know Their structures could not take it To keep out the wind and cold To heat these schools were impossible With one pot-bellied stove The wood they usually had to bring Had to be handled with a glove In winter pupils left their homes A few junks in their arms No roads were then ploughed Just face the snow and storms When they did get to school They would light the fire but then It would take about an hour For the heat to comfort them The modern schools built today With facilities of every kind The pupils do not suffer Same as in olden times There are buses taking them to school And it's so warm within They do not have to rub their hands To bring the life in them When pupils got their education In these hard times of old T'was drilled well within them They would never let it go There is an old saying When things are very hard to get You feel better when you get them This you don't forget. Ross Pearce (1916-2001) Maberly Resident
Mr. Clarence Goodland (1910-1980)
The Sealer's Life 'Tis the vernal time of the equinox, And the March wind gusty blows, That the sealer stands with his blood-red hands 'Mid the carnage he's wrought on the floes; And the whelps cry out when they see the gaff Then their white coats turn to red With their own life's blood as their throats are cut, For the heaps on heaps of the dead. The brave flags fly from the pans piled high With the pelts of the obese harp, And the stout men stand with their gaffs in hand Their coats show the tow rope's mark: They gaily laugh in a happy mood Like boys round a parrot's cage, As they race to face the fierce doghood When his cap is blown with rage. The growl of the bergs in their majesty, And the grandeur of their might Makes the bravest quail as the towering mounts Look weird in the pale moonlight. While the crunch of the ice as the vessel plows Like a warhorse on her way, While she takes in her hold the fatty gold, The Spoils of the murderous day. 'Tis the Sealer's Life, and he Loves it too, The fatback pork and duff, They Scarce complain with care or pain, Though the ways of the life are rough: With a chunk of seal all goes well, Or a flipper in gravy brown, They'll work like a Lark from morn till dark And take it all as a good day's round. When they homeward roll through the fog and snow With a bumper trip within, They're happy as Birds if they pay for their Crops With a balance for their Kin. They ne'er have a care, they know not fear, Though there are dangers many and grave; 'Tis a Sealer's Life on the frozen main 'Tis his home the icy wave. Clarence Goodland (1910-1980) Maberly/Elliston Resident
Days of the Sail and Oar The Fisher's Boat, it rocks and rolls On the ocean's foaming way, As the gusty wind skims o'er the sea Like drift on a wintry day: The main sail fills in the rustling breeze, The blocks creak to the strain, The staysail reels, and sheets of spray Come o'er the prow like rain. The helmsman scans with watchful eye Where the gunwale skims the brine: And the sheets are braced in the rizins oft, Where hangs the hook and line. The oilskin'd mate in his sow west hat Stands watch on the larboard side And the skipper's boy in the dellroom for'd Takes care that the jib sheets tied. The masts lean out at an angle steep The washboard Bully bears down lower, Tacks back and forth in the south-westwind As she sails toward the shore. The skipper sits on the cuddy aft. His hand and eye on the long tow-line, With the tiller stuck in the rudder's eye, And where the rodney tows behind. The days of the Sail, and the days of the oar With the flying scud and spray, Are a thing of the past in the fisher's mind, When fishing out in the bay. 'Tis a memory now, the sailing boat, That we shall see no more, And we heave a sigh when we think of the past, The days of the Sail and oar. Clarence Goodland (1910-1980) Maberly/Elliston Resident