A LABRADOR SPRING 
next day, undeterred by our first experience, 
and found seventy-three nests on the bare 
rock, after which we bore away for the high 
headland of Quatachoo, which stood up like a 
sentinel among the multitude of low, prostrate 
islands where we took refuge from the stormy 
sea in a deep and quiet anchorage. The water 
was tinged the colour of tea from the river 
which poured with the roar of distant rapids 
from the mainland to the north. From a rocky 
hill, which rose about a hundred and twenty- 
five feet nearly sheer from the ocean, I could see 
between the scuds of fog that drifted landwards 
the low island-studded coast, barren for the 
most part, save for the trees in the gullies. 
The red and gray granitic rocks were relieved 
by great veins of white quartz, and cleft by 
dark basalt, while every deep hollow contained 
a snowdrift of unsullied whiteness, and all 
the seaward shores were surf-fringed. 
“The Night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, 
And shrieks the wild sea-mew.” 
It was cold, it was barren, it was lonely, for there 
was no sign of man to be seen in any direction, 
yet it was a scene thoroughly to be enjoyed. 
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