THE EVENING OF AUG. i, 1895. 



AN Indian, a salmon, a syenite rock. 

 The salmon lies upon the grizzly 

 slope of syenite, and the Indian, fitting 

 his wet moccasins to the rough foothold, 

 rests one end of my gaff against the 

 silvery scales of the big salmon to prevent 

 him from sliding back into his roaring 

 home. 



The sun is setting, and for a brief mo- 

 ment the rays seem to warm the bleak 

 hills of white caribou moss and the dark 

 gullies of stunted black spruce, but the 

 warmth is in the color only. The steel- 

 gray clouds come westward from the ice- 

 blocked straits of Belle Isle with a fine 

 bracing air, but there is no suggestion of 

 real midsummer. A white-throated spar- 

 row among the wild peas pipes loudly to a 

 neighbor up among the chicoutai berries 



