XXIV 



IN NEW BRUNSWICK 

 1897 



A SMALL lake deep in the solitudes of the Canadian forest 

 set in a frame of marsh, of spruces, cedars, and tamarac. 

 The former, beautified by a dense covering of yellow grass, red 

 moss, cranberry scrub and willow, the latter, in their several 

 generations, the most ancient now but fast crumbling mould, a 

 soft bed for their immediate successors, trees long since bare of 

 bark and stripped of branches, piled up as they have fallen one 

 on top of the other, often stretching far out into the lake. Of 

 those still standing many are now but gaunt skeletons, others 

 show their great age by long beard-like masses of lichen which 

 hang from their dead and dying branches, while the younger 

 generations, full of life and strength, have pushed out fresh 

 shoots in every direction. As I sit on an old log overhanging 

 the placid mirror-like lake a woodpecker hammers most ener- 

 getically against a dead tree, a vigorous summons to the juicy 

 occupant to come forth and surrender. From a spruce branch a 

 moosebird peers wistfully at me and no doubt considers the 

 likelihood or otherwise of any scraps for him when my lunch 

 shall have been finished. A beautiful swallowed-tailed butterfly, 

 gorgeous in yellow, black, red, and blue, flutters past in the 

 bright sunshine, in which sparkles a lovely steel-blue dragonfly 

 as it settles for a moment on my log. A large brown frog with a 

 deep bass voice croaks at regular intervals in the marsh, and 

 several smaller ones, but in bright green coats, put their heads 

 above water and with their big black eyes stare at the intruder. 

 To complete this picture of nature undisturbed a bull moose 

 walks out from the bush on the further shore, enters the water to 



