90 The Evening of Aug. i, 1895. 



and then sweetly and clearly the spiritual 

 notes of a hermit thrush ring out farewells 

 to the day that is passing. 



The salmon has never known any other 

 river but this one. His mother hid the 

 egg securely under a heap of clean spark- 

 ling sand in a shallow tributary of the 

 river away up on the great Labrador 

 plateau one day in October, and then 

 hurried back to the sea before the ice 

 caught her. The sheldrakes and wild 

 geese had returned in the springtime be- 

 fore the little salmon had worked his way 

 out of the egg and up through the sand 

 into the clear water of the brook. Two 

 years he spent in the river as a gay parr, 

 splashing out after the ephemeridae on the 

 surface, scooting after the dodging stickle- 

 backs, and slyly waiting for the small eels 

 to venture away from their protecting 

 stones. Then he lost his scarlet spots, 

 and coming down the river in smolt colors 

 went out among the rocky islands in the 

 Gulf of St. Lawrence, where sea plants 

 make red and yellow thickets at the bottom. 

 At first he caught snappy crustaceans- and 



