so calm, so bright," died sweetly,
as such a day should. The moon rose, not a globe, but a tall cone of
silver,--silver that _blushed_; ice-magic again. But she recovered
herself, and reigned in her true shape, queen of the slumber-courts; and
the world slept, and we with it; and in our cabin the sleep-talk was
quieted to ripples of murmur.

_June 22._--Rush! Rush! The water was racing past the ship's side, close
to my ear, as I awoke early. On deck: the strait ahead was packed from
shore to shore with ice, like a boy's brain with fancies; and before a
jolly gale we were skimming into the harbor of Belles Amours. Five days
here: tedious. The main matters here were a sand-beach, a girl who read
and loved Wordsworth, a wood-thrush, a seal-race, a "killer's" head, and
a cascade.

Item, sand-beach, with green grass, looking like a meadow, beyond. Not
intrinsically much of an affair. The beach, on close inspection, proved
soft and dirty, the grass sedge, the meadow a bog. In the distance,
however, and as a variety in this unswarded cliff-coast, it was sweet, I
laugh now to think how sweet, to the eyes.

Item, girl. There was one house in the harbor; not another within three
miles. Here dwelt a family who spoke English,--not a patois, but
English,--rare in Labrador as politicians in heaven. The French
Canadians found in Southern Labrador speak a kind of skim-milk French,
with a little sour-milk English; the Newfoundland Labradorians say
"Him's good for he," and in general use a very "scaly" lingo, learned
from cod-fish, one would think. Here was a mother, acceptable to Lindley
Murray, who had instructed her children. One of these--S----, our best
social explorer, found her out--owned and read a volume of Plato, and
had sent to L'anse du Loup, twenty-four miles, to borrow a copy of
Wordsworth. This was her delight. She had copied considerable portions
of it with her own hand, and could repeat from memory many and many a
page.

"Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air."

But Heaven has its own economies; and perhaps floral "sweetness" is
quite as little wasted upon the desert as upon Beacon Street or Fifth
Avenue.

Item, a bird. We were seeking trout,--only to obtain a minnow tricked in
trout-marks. The boat crept slowly up a deep, solemn cove, over which,
on either side, hun