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Updated: June 4, 2025
If there were more than a half-truth in the significant lament of a very different man, "I should be a poet if only I knew the names of things," then, indeed, Samuel MacCann was equipped to make a mark in literature. From the time he set foot on the volcanic shore of St Michael's Island, Mac had begun his "collection."
"Hard a-port!" called out the steersman. There, just ahead, was a great white-capped "roller" coming coming, the biggest wave they had encountered since leaving open sea. But MacCann, the steersman, swung the boat straight into the crested roller, and the Tulare took it gamely, "bow on."
Jimmie O'Flynn of 'Frisco, the Irish-American lawyer, had seen something of frontier life, and fled it, and MacCann, the Nova Scotian schoolmaster, had spent a month in one of the Caribou camps, and on the strength of that, proudly accepted the nickname of "the Miner."
He was going to the steamship Oklahoma on some business, and promised Father Wills of Holy Cross that he'd stop on the way, and deliver a letter to Mr. MacCann. "Stop on the way! I should think so." "We were goin' to have supper to-night, anyhow, and you'll stay and sleep here." All Mac's old suspicions of the Jesuits seemed to return with the advent of that letter. "I'll read it presently."
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