190 DRIFTING SNOW. 



I have had my usual walk, notwithstanding the 

 storm. My furs are now thrown off, and faithful 

 old Carl is beating the snow out of them. It was 

 pounded in by the force of the wind to the very skin, 

 and I was one mass of whiteness. Beard and face 

 were covered, as well as my clothing, and I was not 

 in appearance unlike what I used to imagine Kriss 

 Kringle might be when. " in the days of other years," 

 1 fancied him to be making his annual tour of the 

 house-tops. 



And my walk has been one of some hardship. I 

 ventured too far out on the sea, and, miscalculating 

 the force of the wind, I found, when I had to face it 

 on my return, that I had before me a somewhat seri- 

 ous task. In the distance I could faintly distinguish 

 the ship's light, and as blast after blast lashed my face 

 with snow, seemingly in malicious spite, and each time 

 with greater fury, I must confess that I more than 

 once wished myself well out of the scrape. 



In truth, I was in some danger. The frost touched 

 my cheeks, and, indeed, I should have had no face left 

 had I not repeatedly turned my back to the wind and 

 revived the frosted flesh with my unmittened hand. 



But now that I have got snugly stowed away in 

 warmth, I am far from sorry for the adventure. My 

 motive in going out was to get a full view of the 

 storm. The snow which has lately fallen is very 

 deep, and the wind, picking it up from hill-side and 

 valley, seemed to fill the whole atmosphere with a vol- 

 ume of flying whiteness. It streamed over the moun- 

 tains, and gleamed like witches' hair along their sum- 

 mits. Great clouds rushed frantically down the slopes, 

 and spun over the cliffs in graceful forms of fantastic 

 lightness, and thence whirled out over the frozen sea, 



