29 



A SAND QUABBY IN WINTEB. 



The end of November, 1872, 6.30 a.m. Wet, wet, wet ! 

 Thermometer 34 deg. A fierce wind blowing some- 

 where from the northwards, howling and shrieking 

 through the trees, and, as can be seen even at that 

 hour, tearing oflF the leaves that still keep their hold 

 on the branches, whirling them high in air, and mixing 

 them with the already fallen leaves which have been 

 swept up from the ground, and tower upwards in spiral 

 eddies before they again drop to the earth. No moon : 

 the sun is not due yet, but he is trying hard to drive a 

 few pale, watery beams through the dull, leaden, 

 black-patched canopy which does duty for a sky ; and, 

 as the eye becomes more accustomed to the semi-dark- 

 ness, a few large snow-flakes ai'e seen here and there 

 amid all the flying leaves. The sash is opened for a 

 better glance of the sky, and in rushes the triumphant 

 wind, sending all my papers flying helter-skelter about 

 the room, and causing great confusion among the 

 multitudinous savage weapons, implements, and orna- 

 ments with which the walls are covered. 



The house is situated on the top of the hill, so that 



