It was a glorious morning. The air was crisp and fragrant with whiffs of
forest perfumes borne down to them from the near-by shore. Banks of
brilliant red and orange in the eastern sky foretold the coming of the
sun. The sea sparkled. Gulls and other wild fowl soared overhead or rode
lightly upon the swell. A school of shining caplin shimmered on the
surface of the water. Here and there a seal lifted its curious head for
a moment, and then disappeared. At intervals a grampus, with a
startling, roaring blow, raised its great black back above the surface,
and then sank again from view.
On barren hillsides patches of snow, remnants of mighty drifts, lay
against the dark moist rocks like great white sheets, and here and there
miniature ice pans rose and fell upon the swell, reminders of the long
cold winter, for winter in this far northern clime is ever reluctant to
relinquish its grasp upon the earth.
The glow in the east disappeared at length, and then the sun rose to
caress them with his warmth. Presently mirages appeared. Islands seemed
to sit upon the tops of other islands, or to hang suspended in the air,
and every distant shore became distorted in the brilliant July sunlight.
"That's the way a good many of us look at things in this life," said
Skipper Ed. "We see the mirage, and not the thing itself. Hopes loom up
and look real, when they're just false. It's a great thing to be able to
tell the differences between what is real and what is just a mirage.
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