Tiny little violets, set in a background of black or dark green
moss, adorn the hill-sides, and many flowers unknown to warmer zones
come bravely forth to flourish for a few weeks only, and wither in the
August winds. Very few of the flowers, so refreshing and charming to
the eye, have any perfume. Nearly all smell of the dank moss that forms
their bed.
As soon as the snow leaves the ground, the hill-sides in many
localities are covered with the vine that bears a small black berry
(called by the natives parwong,) in appearance, though not in flavor,
like the huckleberry. It has a pungent spicy tartness that is very
acceptable after a long diet of meat alone, and the natives, when they
find these vines, stop every other pursuit for the blissful moments of
cramming their stomachs with the fruit. This is kept up, if the crop
only lasts long enough until they have made themselves thoroughly sick
by their hoggishness. But the craving for some sort of vegetable diet
is irresistible, and with true Inuit improvidence they indulge it,
careless of consequences. Fortunate for them is it that their summer,
is a short one, and the parwong not abundant, or cholera might be added
to the other dangers of Arctic residence. But the days of the buttercup
and the daisy, and of the butterfly and the mosquito are few.
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