On June 27 they procured a new bird[35] which Audubon named after his young companion, Thomas Lincoln of Dennisville, Maine, and which is still known as "Lincoln's Finch." This reference is found in his journal for the 4th of July: "I have drawn all day, and have finished the plate of the Fringilla lincolnii, to which I have put three plants of the country; to us they are very fitting to the purpose, for Lincoln gathered them." The _Ripley_ left its anchorage at American Harbor or Natashquan on June 28, and stood out to sea, their usual recourse to avoid the intricacies of the coast. After proceeding fifty miles or more they touched at numerous islands, where Guillemots, Puffins, and Black-backed Gulls were breeding in vast numbers, and managed to anchor safely, in spite of that "ignorant ass" of a pilot, at a wild and desolate point which a recent traveler has identified as the harbor of Wapitagun.[36] July the second was such a beautiful day for Labrador that Audubon went on shore, where he drew this vivid picture of that desolate land in sunshine:[37] The country, so wild and grand, is of itself enough to interest any one in its wonderful dreariness. Its mossy, gray-clothed rocks, heaped and thrown together as if by chance, in the most fantastical groups imaginable, huge masses hanging on minor ones as if about to roll themselves down from their doubtful-looking situations, into the depths of the sea beneath. Bays without end, sprinkled with rocky islands of all shapes and sizes, where in every fissure a Guillemot, a Cormorant, or some other wild bird retreats to secure its egg, and raise its young, or save itself 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 [that are] pushing their tender stems from the thick bed of moss which everywhere 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 perchance, and indeed as if by chance alone, you now and then see flying before you, or hear singing from the creeping plants of the ground. The beautiful fresh water lakes, on the ragged crests of greatly elevated islands, wherein the Red and Black-necked Divers swim as proudly as swans do in 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 grand, wild—aye, and terrific. And yet how beautiful it is now, when one sees the wild bee, moving from one flower to another in search of food, which doubtless is as sweet to it, as the essence of the