COLONEL CODSHEAD 305 



world. However, the storm came, and though we escaped in 

 " Me-tro-po-Hs," as our ancient calls it, there was plenty of it 

 in the country, and it was cold enough in town. So the 

 prophecy of the ancient was fulfilled, and he has risen in our 

 estimation in consequence. Never will we believe flowers, 

 thrushes, lambs, or anything of the sort again, in preference to 

 our own " oldest inhabitant." What with the hosiery and this 

 notice, we trust our friend will think we have made the amende 

 honorable. 



A snow-storm is a punishing thing; it puts a stop to 

 everj'thing. As we said before, we can stand it at Christmas, 

 but at no other time. At Christmas we can console ourselves 

 with the thoughts that it is seasonable — that as we must have 

 it, it is better to have it at the right time, and be done with it 

 — that the horses want rest, and we draw our chairs round the 

 fire, and look forward to resuming the field with redoubled 

 zeal. 



But a March storm, while it checks hunting and blights all 

 our floricultural hopes and expectations, presents no bright 

 prospect in view. Go when it will, hunting, we feel, cannot 

 return, at least not in the genuine, natural, other half of the 

 thing, sort of way. 



The only consolation about a March storm — at least one late 

 on in the month — is that they never last. They are like frosts 

 in November, which are sometimes uncommonly keen and 

 iron-bound at night, and yet extremely wet and sloppy in the 

 morning. When a March storm gets the turn of its complaint, 

 it generally subsides very fast. A day of cold, bitter, blustering 

 storm will be succeeded by one of balmy sunshine, that melts 

 the snow in half the time it takes in the earlier months. So it 

 was this year, though snow-wreaths might be seen on the 

 higher grounds in the month of April. Strange to say, April 

 was a better hunting month this year than March. It was 

 wet, and cold, and splashy enough in all conscience. 



X 



