54 FROM BLOMIDON TO SMOKY. 



the air became damper and the darkness more 

 intense. With caution and frequent peering 

 ahead we rowed towards the creek in which we 

 were to land. Here a shoal had to be avoided, 

 there a fisherman's boat passed by. 



Now in the gloom we could discern a mass 

 of willows in which the kingfishers had been 

 sounding their loud call during the day, and be- 

 yond them loomed up the timbers of the old 

 mill whose wreck was to be our pier. Poor old 

 mill, it had been starved to death by tariffs, a 

 grim punishment for its slaughter of many a 

 good king of the forest. We landed, and in the 

 soft stillness made our stumbling way across 

 field and pasture to the cosy Ingonish parlor, 

 where, in strange contrast to rugged coast, and 

 stern mountain, and the general simplicity of 

 the fishermen's houses on the shore, we had 

 found refinement, comfort, and open hospitality. 



Beyond the great wall of rounded stones, 

 raised by ice and storm, lay the beach. The 

 rippling waves played softly upon the firm sand, 

 making dainty lines across it. We could hear 

 the murmur of those waves and the faint rustle 

 of the breeze in the shrubbery. All was peace 

 and gentleness, yet under that kindly music 

 those who knew Ingonish Bay could hear other 

 voices. High in the air the powers of the storm 

 were holding council, and deep in the sea the 



