Near dawn William broke out of the scrub firs onto the hill above Freshwater Bay. He saw the moon-coloured sails of a schooner on its way into St. John's. The vessel looked dark in the faint light. But William knew it was green.

This year every captain, big or small, had painted his vessel green, not black. The sea looked like a festival. Vessels were painted all kinds of greens. Fir. Spruce. Limes. Green gages. Iris loved the green schooners.

But William told her they were painted gaily to say farewell. Steamships were coming in. Sails were going out. Sailmakers knew it. They were closing shop.

Sailmaking, like coopering, was a doomed trade. Soon sails and barrels would be a thing of the past.

Soon, soon... he poked the snow with a walking stick he had cut. It'd be better if it were now, not soon. If it was all over, sails, barrels, horses, it would be done. But change happens just slow enough to drain life out of a family like me and Iris and Alice Maud.

Trades people like us are getting fewer and fewer. I suppose it will be worse in a few year's time. A man will wake to find he's the last cooper in the world, and no barrels are needed. Same with the sailmaker, and the tinsmith, and the blacksmith.

But me, I'd as soon be the last one and see the real death of it. Rather than see the life choked out of all the old ways. All the work we know how to do...