A LABRADOR SPRING 
though one greatly terrified fellow kept up the 
flopping for three and three quarters min- 
utes by the watch, — they would give up the 
struggle and dive, and their subaqueous de- 
parture was probably more rapid than their 
amphibious one. They reminded me of children 
who are able to walk fairly well, but, when terr1- 
fied, forget their acquired art and return to a 
primitive scramble on all fours. Diving by 
loons, like walking on the hind legs by man, 
is an art of comparatively late development. 
On this same 23d of May, as we steamed east 
from Moisie, many flocks of old squaws or 
long-tailed ducks flew about us, or, rising from 
the water, mounted to a considerable height 
and flew hither and thither as if they had not 
yet made up their minds which way to go next. 
In all there must have been over a thousand 
of these beautiful ducks. The distance and 
the noise of the steamer prevented our hearing 
their voices, but they were doubtless as garru- 
lous as usual, and from their talkativeness 
they derive their names ‘old squaw.’”’ On 
the eastern Labrador coast they are called 
“hounds,” a very appropriate name, for at 
a distance, their voices sound like those of a 
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