IN AUDUBON'S LABRADOR 



out of the water, but no artificial flies were 

 cast for their delectation. The owner of the 

 river, Sir Charles Ross, was busy in Quebec 

 making rifles for his country. 



The botanist always carried a large tin col- 

 lecting-box painted white so as not to absorb 

 the sun's rays. Its color made it conspicuous 

 at a distance and its weight and bulkiness pre- 

 vented him from carrying the rucksack contain- 

 ing the frying-pan and provisions, which, natu- 

 rally, fell to my lot. We always separated early 

 in the day on our two different quests, with 

 the understanding that we should meet at 

 dinner-time on some designated rocky peak 

 where we hoped to get out of the flies. The 

 arrangement was a very good one for me; I 

 did not need to worry — it was the other man's 

 interest to find me. He found me that day as 

 on all others. 



I was particularly struck that day with the 

 unsuspicious nature of Wilson's warbler — 

 that bright-yellow bird with a glossy black 

 cap. I sat down in a thicket where two anxious 

 parents, each with its bill full of insects, scolded 

 me with loud chips. They were often within 

 five or six feet of me, and one of them nearly 



