less this genus will eventually be taken up by the nurserymen, as have the different species of Rubus.

The Leather Leaf (Cassandra calyculata), and Andromeda polifolia, are both worthy of attention. White Alder (Clethra alnifolia) is already somewhat known, and is covered in August with handsome blossoms so fragrant that a clump may be detected at many rods distance.

Mountain Laurel, Calico-bush, Spoon-wood (Kalmia latifolia), is one of the most beautiful shrubs ever created, as seen in profusion in its varying shades, in parts of Massachusetts, but very seldom in cultivation. Kalmia glauca, or Pale Laurel, is less showy, but of great beauty. The Azaleas . (A. viscosa and nudiflora) are very common, very beautiful and fragrant, but very seldom cultivated.

The Great Laurel (Rhododendron maximum), though magnificent in its native thickets, cannot probably compete with the foreign species, now so generally introduced, but Rhodora Canadensis, with its rose-purple blossoms, covering the leafless branches, is one of the pleasantest sights of early spring, and Labrador Tea (Ledum latifolium) with its delicate white clusters and leaves rusty-woolly beneath, is likewise full of beauty.

The Fringe-tree (Chionanthus Virginica) with its delicate white drooping panicles, ought to be seen much more frequently than it is.

Sassafras officicinale with its curiously lobed leaves, yellow racemes of flowers, and spicy aroma; Leather-wood (Dirca palustris), also called Wicopy, with pale yellowish flowers is a curious shrub, its wood soft and brittle, its bark so tough that it can be used for thongs, requiring a strong man to break even its slenderest twigs.

From this list have been omitted very many trees and shrubs in common cultivation. The object has been to call attention to those less generally known. Many of these have their natural station in swampy ground; many resist attempts at transplanting. But a little care in choosing from

those in dryer locations, or setting out in moist ground, or better yet, propagating from seed, would doubtless overcome these difficulties, reward the pains taken, and introduce some charming novelties to the lovers of flowers.

Such an arboretum, shrubbery or lawn, comprising only native species, would not only gratify the botanist and the naturalist, but would surprise and delight the rapidly increasing number of amateur cultivators, who as yet have very little idea of the wealth of floral beauty to be found in our swamps and woodlands.

A WINTER'S DAY IN THE YUKON TERRITORY.

BY W. H. DALL.

MANY of the readers of the NATURALIST when they hear Alaska spoken of, picture to themselves a snow-covered country, with at most a scanty summer, and a long and extremely cold winter. A recent "official" report for instance, represents the island of St. Paul as surrounded in winter by "immense masses of ice" on which the polar bears and arctic foxes sail down from the North and engage in pitched battle with the wretched inhabitants. Such romances are due solely to the ardent imagination of the "official" mind, and have no basis in fact. There is no solid, and but little floating ice near St. Paul in winter; the arctic foxes found there as well as on most of the other islands, were purposely introduced by the Russians for propagation, a certain number of skins being taken annually; and finally, we have no authentic evidence that the polar bear has ever been found south of Behring Strait.

The country of Alaska comprises two climatic regions which differ as widely as Labrador and South Carolina in their winter temperature. One contains the mainland north

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of the peninsula of Aliaska and the islands north of the St. Matthew group. The other includes the coast and islands south and east of Kadiak, while the Aleutian Islands, with the group of St. Paul and St. George, are somewhat intermediate, being nearly as warm as the southern or Sitkan district, and much less rainy.

This article will refer only to the northern district, which I have called the Yukon Territory. This is the coldest and most inhospitable part of the country, yet it is far from resembling Labrador or Greenland, although the winter weather may occasionally be very cold. The summers are much warmer and more pleasant than in Labrador, and may be compared to those of the Red River district of the Hudson Bay Territory.

At the first thought one would hardly suppose that a naturalist would find much to do in the depth of winter, unless it were to sit by his great Russian oven or stove, and keep himself warm. I would invite the readers of the NATURALIST to accompany me on a day's tramp, similar to many which I have undertaken without such pleasant company, and see how far their first anticipations will be realized.

We will start from Ulokuk, an Indian village on the portage between the Yukon and Norton Sound, and bring up at Unaloklik, an Eskimo village on the coast, thirty miles away.

We clothe ourselves in the comfortable costume of the country, consisting of a pair of warm American trousers; a deerskin hunting shirt with a hood, made with the hair on, trimmed with wolf or wolverine skin, and fastened by a belt around the waist; a good mink-skin cap with ear-lappets; a pair of otter-skin mittens; and a pair of long Indian deerskin boots with soles of sealskin, tied around the ankle and just below the knee, and having a bunch of straw below the foot to keep it warm, dry, and safe from contusions. Our equipment will consist of our guns, a geological hammer, a good sheath-knife, a small axe, teakettle, bag of biscuit and dry salmon, and a pair of long snowshoes apiece.

We start at ten o'clock, just as the December sun emerges from the southern hills and casts its welcome beams over the broad tundra covered with snow, flecking the green spruce boughs with golden touches of light, and giving a mellow tone to the clear blue sky. The temperature may be about twenty below zero, but in our warm deerskin dresses, we feel that it is only just cold enough to make the blood leap and the nerves thrill with the excitement of a brisk walk, skimming over the snow with our light snowshoes.

We just clear the alder bushes around the village when a chirp and twitter in a clump of willows attract our attention. We look, and see a flock of the Pine Grosbeaks (Pinicola enucleator), brilliant in scarlet and yellow, rifling the willows of their buds, carefully rejecting the scales and eating only the tender green hearts of the young buds. They look so pretty as they ruffle their scarlet coats, defying the winter frost, fat and comfortable with abundance of food, that we hesitate before we bring our guns to bear on them, and reluctantly add half a dozen members of the happy family to our collecting bag, with a single shot. They have the large bill which has been thought to distinguish the European form alone, and cannot be distinguished from typical specimens of the enucleator. They are among the most common of the Yukon birds in winter, and though quite small are usually fat and tender, and not to be despised in a pie. Leaving the banks of the Ulokuk River we strike across an undulating prairie called tundra by the Russians, and only marked by clumps of dwarf willow (Salix Richardsonii), which project above the snow. Here and there a larch shakes its myriads of little cones in the passing breeze, or a small spruce shows its green tips; but the large spruce, poplar, willow and birch, prefer the vicinity of the river. The snow-covered Ulokuk Hills smooth, serene and beautiful, bear up the reluctant sun, which seems loth to part from the horizon. Does the snow move? or what is that by yonder willow brush? We are answered as a covey of the exquisite

Snow Grouse or Ptarmigan (Lagopus albus) rise with a whirr, showing their black tail-feathers as they seek a more retired spot. Scarcely to be distinguished from the snow, nor less immaculate, we must be more sharply on the lookout if we would secure a brace next time. They are better to look at than to eat; for the dark colored flesh is dry and tasteless, and if we want specimens the better plan is to apply to the next Indian girl we meet. She, for a needle apiece, will furnish us with birds caught in snares, without a feather ruffled, or a speck on their shining coats. Their legs and feet are feathered down to the toes, and other stockings would be superfluous were we ourselves so warmly clad.

As we near a clump of poplars on a bend in the river, we see that the bushes are alive with tiny birds. The Black Cap (Parus atricapillus) and the Hudson Bay Titmouse (P. Hudsonicus), chatter to each other from the swaying twigs of alder, and a little farther on is a countless flock of the Rosy Crowned Sparrow (Egiothus linaria) bold and saucy, with their crimson crests and rosy bosoms setting off their graceful shapes and lively motions.

Chip! chip! chee! cries an angry Squirrel (Sciurus Hudsonius) from yonder poplar; he evidently wants to know why we intrude on his privacy with guns and things, making ourselves disagreeable. A look, and he darts behind the trunk, only showing his head and ears, repeating his angry cry in apparent astonishment at our obstinacy in remaining. Finding us unmoved "a change comes o'er the spirit of his dreams" and he seeks refuge in the deserted nest of a Golden-winged Woodpecker (Colaptes auratus), and waits for better times. You ask what is yonder broad trail in the snow; too small for a bear, too broad and heavy for a fox. It is the track of a Wolverine (Gulo luscus), known here by the more euphonic name of rossamorga. The Indians tell strange stories of his cunning, his perseverence in destroying their traps, and his almost human powers of reflection. The