A LABRADOR SPRING 



a different nation. At the head of a little bay 

 close by the discharge of a tumultuous river 

 on a granitic glacier-smoothed rock he has 

 built his house, the finest house I have seen 

 on all the Labrador coast. The roar of the 

 rapids beside him, and the subdued murmur of 

 the distant cataract in the forest, is always in 

 his ears. On the one side the sun rises over 

 the bay with its rocky islets, and sets on the 

 other behind the barren hills which terminate 

 his view over the dark spruce forest. On the 

 shore of the bay below him are the half dozen 

 houses of the habitants, and a tiny chapel 

 completes the picture of the little village, while 

 several fishing boats ride at anchor a stone's 

 throw away. 



On the opposite side of the river are some 

 large enclosures that at once attracted our at- 

 tention. These are parks for the breeding of 

 black foxes, whose skins, beautiful in them- 

 selves, have been greatly enhanced in value 

 by the whims of royal fashion until they have 

 become one of the most precious products of 

 the Labrador coast. To the trapper in the 

 wilds they are lucky incidents, a much hoped 

 for dream which may never be realized. To 



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