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THE ARCTIC PRAIRIES 



favoured only with promising scraps when wintry 

 clouds were broken by the sun. Nor were the old 

 familiar ones away — Flicker, Sapsucker, Hairy Wood- 

 pecker, Kingfisher, Least Flycatcher, Alder Flycatcher, 

 Robin, Crow, and Horned Owl were here to mingle 

 their noises with the stranger melodies 

 and calls of Lincoln Sparrow, Fox Spar- 

 row, Olive-sided Flycatcher, Snipe, Rusty 

 Blackbird, and Bohemian Waxwing. 



Never elsewhere have I seen Horned 

 Owls so plentiful. I did not know that 

 there were so many Bear and Beaver left; 

 I never was so much impressed by the in- 

 spiring raucous clamour of the Cranes, 

 the continual spatter of Ducks, the cries 

 of Gulls and Yellowlegs. Hour after hour 

 we paddled down that stately river ad- 

 ding our 3 J miles to its 1 mile speed; 

 each turn brought to view some new and 

 lovelier aspect of bird and forest life. I 

 never knew a land of balmier air; I never 

 felt the piney breeze more sweet; no- 

 where but in the higher mountains is there such a tonie 

 sense abroad; the bright woods and river reaches 

 were eloquent of a clime whose maladies are mostly 

 foreign-born. But alas! I had to view it all swaddled, 

 body, hands, and head, like a bee-man handling his 

 swarms. Songs were muffled, scenes were dimmed by 

 the thick, protecting, suffocating veil without which 

 men can scarcely live. 

 Ten billion dollars would be all too small reward, 



Stellaria 



