30 fc * IN THE HARD GREY WEATHER. 



breeze dies off, the birds cease to call, the atmo- 

 sphere grows chiller and darker, and heavy flakes 

 of snow tumble down. Arriving at a turf stack 

 the fowler crouches at the lee side of it for 

 shelter, and finds that he has to share the 

 situation with a miserable ague-stricken dealer 

 in matting and brushes, who comes on the 

 wold to gather the material for his commerce. 

 The poor wretch's hands are literally bleeding 

 from contact with the frozen grass and withies ; 

 his cadaverous grimy face is livid ; the Decem- 

 ber blast smites him through the thin scarecrow 

 garments in which he cowers. The sight of 

 this cheerless forlorn creature, who had not 

 even the spirit to ask for alms, is too much to be 

 borne in addition to the snow, and the fowler 

 therefore adventures to search out a road that 

 passes through the fen at some little distance on. 

 As he gains this point on his route he meets 

 with a second exhilarating prospect. A fune- 

 ral conducted at a brisk trot passes along the 

 road, the bright deal coffin having a peculiarly 

 garish and startling emphasis stretched on the 

 gloom of the sepulchral van on which it goes 

 jolting. A woman in a hooded cloak is seated 



