92 ONE OF FIFTY DAYS IN SOUTHERN LABRADOR. 



across the neck, a mile away, was a flock of these birds, 

 darkening nearly a square mile of the sky. There must 

 have been many thousands in that flock, all piping and 

 whistling like the jingling of ten thousand sleigh-bells, 

 or the whistling of the wind through the ropes of a 

 squadron of seventy-fours, while performing a series of 

 evolutions of wonderful celerity and precision. The 

 whole mass wheeled around the hills and over the plain, 

 now stretching out over the bay, made up of smaller 

 troops, chasing each other around and through the whole 

 moving mass in the greatest apparent confusion and dis- 

 order. It was really a great sight, this marshalling of 

 the curlew hosts. After this grand review of their forces 

 they separate into small flocks, scatter over the country 

 to feed on the curlew-berries now ripening, or to patrol 

 the shore at low-water in search of stray worms and 

 snails. The inhabitants kill large quantities of this deli- 

 cious bird, and salt them down in barrels for winter use. 

 They cannot conjecture where they come from, but say 

 that the first northeast wind in late summer always 

 brings them. 



But the sun is going down in the fog and mist driving 

 in from the gulf. The wind has hauled to the east, and 

 blows chilly and damp ; and so ended many of the thirty 

 fair days of the fifty I spent in Southern Labrador. 



