This morning we anchored of the Isle of Bic, a pretty low island, covered with trees and looking very pleasant.  I felt a longing desire to set my foot on Canadian ground, and must own I was a little disappointed when the captain advised me to remain on board, and not attempt to make one of the party that were preparing to go on shore:  my husband seconded the captain’s wish, so I contented myself with leaning over the ship’s side and feasting my eyes on the rich masses of foliage as they waved to and fro with the slight breeze that agitated them.  I had soon reason to be thankful that I had not followed my own wayward will, for the afternoon proved foggy, and on the return of the boat I learned that the ground was swampy just where the party landed, and they sunk over their ankles in water.  They reported the island to be covered knee-deep with a most luxuriant growth of red clover, tall trees, low shrubs, and an abundance of wild flowers.

That I might not regret not accompanying him, my husband brought me a delightful bouquet, which he had selected for me.  Among the flowers were flagrant red roses, resembling those we call Scotch burnet-leaved, with smooth shining leaves and few if any thorns; the blue flower called Pulmonaria or Lungwort, which I gathered in the Highlands, a sweet pea, with red blossoms and wreaths of lovely pale green foliage; a white orchis, the smell of which was quite delicious.  Besides these were several small white and yellow flowers, with which I was totally unacquainted.  The steward furnished me with a china jar and fresh water, so that I shall have the pleasure of a nosegay during the rest of the voyage.  The sailors had not forgotten a green bough or two to adorn the ship, and the bird-cage was soon as bowery as leaves could make it.

Though the weather is now very fine, we make but slow progress; the provoking wind seems determined to blow from every quarter but the right.  We float up with the flood tide, and when the tide fails cast anchor, and wait with the best grace we can till it is time to weigh anchor again.  I amuse myself with examining the villages and settlements through the captain’s glass, or watching for the appearance of the white porpoises tumbling among the waves.  These creatures are of a milky whiteness, and have nothing of the disgusting look of the black ones.  Sometimes a seal pops its droll head up close beside our vessel, looking very much like Sinbad’s little old man of the sea.

It is fortunate for me that my love of natural history enables me to draw amusement from objects that are deemed by many unworthy of attention.  To me they present an inexhaustible fund of interest.  The simplest weed that grows in my path, or the fly that flutters about me, are subjects for reflection, admiration and delight.