102 JOHN JAMES AUDUBON 
from the hunter’s pursuit. The peculiar 
cast of the sky, which never seems to be 
certain, butterflies flitting over snow- 
banks, probing beautiful dwarf flowerets 
of many hues, pushing their tender stems 
from the thick bed of moss which every- 
where covers the granite rocks. Then 
the morasses, wherein you plunge up to 
your knees, or the walking over the 
stubborn, dwarfish shrubbery, making 
one think that as he goes he treads down 
the forests of Labrador. The unexpected 
Bunting, or perhaps Sylvia, which, per- | 
chance, and indeed as if by chance alone, 
you now and then see flying before you, 
or hear singing from the creeping plants 
on the ground. The beautiful fresh- 
water lakes, on the rugged crests of 
greatly elevated islands, wherein the Red 
and Black-necked Divers swim as proudly 
as swans doin other latitudes, and where 
the fish appear to have been cast as 
strayed beings from the surplus food of 
the ocean. All—all is wonderfully 
