boiled with venison or porcupine, or
whatever other meat was going, as we would use whole pepper.'

'After the whortleberries, they were to go to the rice-grounds,'
observed Arthur. 'Bob, suppose we paddle over and try for ducks in
the rice-beds, to the lee of that island.'

Here were some hundred yards of shallow water, filled with the tall
graceful plant, named by the Jesuits 'folle avoine,' and by the English
'wild rice.' The long drooping ears filled with very large grains,
black outside and white within, shook down their contents into the silt
at bottom with every movement which waved their seven-feet stems. Arthur
knew it as a noted haunt of wild duck, a cloud of which arose when he
fired.

'It was here we met all the pigeons the other day,' said he. 'Those
trees were more like the inside of a feather-bed than anything else,
so covered were they with fluttering masses of birds; you couldn't see
a bit of the foliage; and 'twas quite amusing to watch some of them
lighting on the rice, which wasn't strong enough to support them, and
trying to pick out the grains. As they could neither swim nor stand,
they must have been thoroughly tantalized. Don't you remember,
Armytage?'

But their main business, the plums, must be attended to; the islet was
found which was bordered with festoons of them, hanging over the edge in
the coves; and after due feasting on the delicious aromatic fruit, they
gathered some basketsful. When that was done, it was high time to paddle
homewards; the sun was gliding forth from the roseate vault over the
western rim, and a silvery haze rose from the waters, softly veiling the
brilliant landscape.

'A great improvement to your charcoal forest, it must be owned,' said
Robert, pointing Armytage to where the sharp black tops of rampikes
projected over the mist. The young man did not relish allusions to that
folly of his father's, and was silent.

'Oh, Bob, what a pretty islet!' exclaimed Linda, as they passed a rock
crested with a few trees, and almost carpeted by the brilliant red
foliage of the pyrola, or winter green. 'The bushes make quite a
crimson wreath round the yellow poplars.'

'I think,' said Robert, with deliberation, 'it would be almost worth the
voyage across the Atlantic Ocean to see this single day of "the pink
mist."'

CHAPTER XXXVI.

BELOW ZERO.

Indian summer was succeeded by the 'temps boucaneux,' when hoarfrost
drooped noiselessly on the night its silver po