A LABRADOR SPRING 
women, young and old, many with babes in 
arms. The central figure of the procession 
was the priest dressed in gorgeous vestments 
and bearing the host. He strode along under a 
canopy supported by four sturdy fishermen, pre- 
ceded by a banner, a company of men singers, 
and four large candle-lanterns, raised aloft on 
poles by four white-bearded men. Seven boys 
in scarlet and white took their appointed 
positions in the group. Behind the priest fol- 
lowed the long throng of men, all bare-headed, 
with whom I reverently joined. 
Along the narrow, sandy lane we slowly 
walked. Great solemnity, piety and adoration 
of the sacred services were shown on every 
face. There was no levity, no idle conversation; 
there were no lookers-on, all were participants. 
The men sang, the priest intoned, the bells in 
the steeple rang forth; a fox sparrow’s flute- 
like tones issued from the brook-side, clear and 
sweet, and the holy vespers of the hermit thrush 
came faintly from the distant forest. At last 
we reached a turning in the lane where the 
priest entered a repository, gayer still with 
flags and bright pictures, images and paper 
flowers, and with carpets placed about. Here, 
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