The Wilderness 45 
sombreness, the pale wraith of the shadbush 
haunts for an enchanted hour the river’s 
edge. 
Meanwhile the hobblebush spreads white 
patches of bloom under hemlocks and a faint 
red haze lies over the swamps, a mist of 
green over alders and birch, subtly blending 
with the purplish sheen of bare branches. 
The sky is grey and sombre, the air, heavy and 
chill. Raquette Lake lies dull and unre- 
sponsive amidst dark hills, as if still under 
the hypnosis of winter. In the length and 
breadth of the North Woods there is not a 
dry spot. It is the recession of the floods, 
the Champlain epoch, which is every year 
re-enacted in miniature, and man, adapting 
himself as best he may, in oilskins and boots 
flounders laboriously in a semi-aquatic en- 
vironment. 
Before the aspens about the camp were in 
full leaf, they were taken possession of by a 
band of purple finches in the heydey of love- 
making. And though it drizzled and the grey 
skies spat snow, the perfervid finches in fierc- 
est rivalry pursued the somewhat prim look- 
ing females, sidling along the branches with 
fluttering wings and ruffled feathers to pour 
out their love songs in prolonged ecstasy. 
