A LABRADOR SPRING 
portage path that soon began to ascend the 
rocky barren hills we had seen before us. This 
path ends on the high land at a small lake from 
which the river discharges, and throws itself 
in a broken fall of great beauty down a hundred 
and fifty feet or more into the forest below. 
Although the falls are not a sheer descent, but 
form an angle of about forty-five degrees, the 
effect is grand, as the great volumes of white 
waters come bounding down the decline, ap- 
pearing to burst and throw themselves thirty 
or forty feet into the air in their progress. 
The setting in the wild forest added much to 
the beauty of the scene, for, with the exception 
of the faintly marked Indian portage-path, 
there was no sign of man to be found, — there 
was no park, no “ path to view the falls.” By 
gradually working my way through the thick 
spruces and birches that grew luxuriantly in the 
constant spray, I managed to reach a point of 
advantage at the foot of the falls. Both the 
air and the fallen tree on which I stood were 
quivering and throbbing with the pulse-beat 
of the cataract, which roared loudly in my ears, 
and the trees swayed with the force of the blasts 
of air and spray. The leaping, spouting waters, 
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