IN AUDUBON'S LABEADOR 



they were all in their Sunday best, and ad 

 English Sunday is proverbially oppressive. 



That evening we were lulled to sleep on the 

 deck of our little schooner by the moumfxil 

 chorus of the howling of Eskimo dogs, a chorus 

 that was taken up by one group after another 

 in the village. It is a weird sound and sug- 

 gests the rush of winds through rocks and 

 crags, wolf-packs on dreary Arctic wastes, and 

 Eskimo snow villages in the remote North. It 

 is a crude, primeval sort of music, not without 

 a certain wild charm and beauty. 



