SHORE LARK. 
45 
dancing one of those buoyant crafts used by whalers. In a few moments it 
was alongside the Ripley, when my old acquaintance, the sturdy cod-fisher 
Billings of Eastport, offered his services, and soon guided us into port, in 
entering which we passed through an aperture, guarded by two dangerous 
rocks, so narrow that one might have leaped ashore from our bark. Once 
entered, our nostrils were assailed by odours that were anything but agree- 
able. I was surprised to find so much bustle in such a place : perhaps more 
than a hundred fishing-barks lay at anchor, in so regular array that they 
might remind one of the disciplined order of a squadron ready for action, 
although the business-like appearance of the fishermen would soon remove 
the illusion. Every deck was heaped with fish, the value of which has, 
for many years back, brought vessel after vessel to these inhospitable shores. 
Each “ pickaxe ” had its “ Hampton boats ” well manned and ready to sail 
towards the shallows, where the cod is obtained. Some, in search of bait, 
were plying their oars and nets, while others were strewing the salted cod 
over the native rocks around, there to lie under the drying rays of the sun. 
Stacks of fish, nearly cured, stretched along to the view, in as close and 
regular array as haycocks in a meadow. A continued splash was produced 
by the garbage as it was thrown overboard, and you may judge, if you can, 
how many thousands of cod and ling have been destroyed, before the whole 
bottom of this harbour has been paved with their heads. 
The thick fog rolled around us, impelled by the chill breeze of the east. 
Mountains high and bleak we knew were near, but as yet the landscape was 
concealed from our view. At length the mist disperses, reft by the northern 
blasts, the sun appears riding among the fleeting vapours, and now the 
curtain rises, when lo ! what a magnificent prospect presents itself! craggy 
cliffs, with masses of snow still hanging to their sides, and from whose 
summits, under sheets of ice, cataracts rush in fury towards the plain. The 
dismal table-lands form a striking contrast with the beautiful verdure below. 
Turning towards the south-west, where lay my cherished land, I beheld the 
precipitous shores of Newfoundland, with masses of ice between, fixed to 
the foundations of the deep, their everchanging prismatic tints dazzling the 
eye. But hark ! the song of the Shore Lark fills the air, as the warbler 
mounts on high. “ Man the whale-boat,” cries the watchful captain ; “ young 
friends, let us off to the shore,” say I ; and soon were we all at the place 
where we had seen the bird alight. 
Although in the course of our previous rambles along the coast of Labrador 
and among the numberless islands that guard its shores, I had already seen 
this Lark in the act of breeding, never before that day did I so much enjoy 
its song, and never before I reached this singular spot, had I to add to my 
joys that of finding its nest. Here I found the bird in the full perfection of 
Vol. HI. 7 
