A LABRADOR SPRING 
a different nation. At the head of a little bay 
close by the discharge of a tumultuous river 
on a granitic glacier-smoothed rock he has 
built his house, — the finest house I have seen 
on all the Labrador coast. The roar of the 
rapids beside him, and the subdued murmur of 
the distant cataract in the forest, is always in 
his ears. On the one side the sun rises over 
the bay with its rocky islets, and sets on the 
other behind the barren hills which terminate 
his view over the dark spruce forest. On the 
shore of the bay below him are the half dozen 
houses of the habitants, and a tiny chapel 
completes the picture of the little village, while 
several fishing boats ride at anchor a stone’s 
throw away. 
On the opposite side of the river are some 
large enclosures that at once attracted our at- 
tention. These are parks for the breeding of 
black foxes, whose skins, beautiful in them- 
selves, have been greatly enhanced in value 
by the whims of royal fashion until they have 
become one of the most precious products of 
the Labrador coast. To the trapper in the 
wilds they are lucky incidents, a much hoped 
for dream which may never be realized. To 
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