IN A FISHING COUNTRY 



from the nor'westerly quadrant, and de- 

 livers the funnelled air in wicked squalls, as 

 from a nozzle. 



One is bound to dwell upon the river 

 life, for the old Murray Bay was a water- 

 ing-place, where all the world bathed and 

 boated. The destination of a paddle 

 might be the Riviere Loutre, or one of the 

 streams below it; but the past generation 

 will remember with peculiar affection the 

 fair beaches on this side of St. Irenee: 

 'Smuggler's Cave', Petit Ruisseau, 'Din- 

 ner' and 'Boulder' beach, the Gros Ruis- 

 seau; — all now traversed by the railway, 

 which shattered without ruth every fami- 

 liar headland barring its path. Drift- 

 wood was there for the gathering; when 

 evening drew in our huge fires were wont 

 to light a sweep of sand with curving tide- 

 marks, the row of waiting canoes, steep- 

 climbing ranks of birch and spruce, the 

 faces of the singers. . . The reddening logs 

 are kicked together to throw a last flame on 

 the embarkation, the flotilla slips home 

 under silent dip of paddles. Far astern the 

 glow lingers, till a point shuts it out and the 

 wharf lights twinkle ahead. I wonder if, 

 in the days that be, aught has been devised 

 so pleasant in the doing, so filled with 

 46 



