98 A GARDEN DIARY 
There were many days last summer—to be accu- 
rate, I believe, there were forty-three—when it 
was by no means necessary to go to the Sahara 
in order to ascertain what a condition of almost 
unendurable drought could be like. For the 
present I feel that these two samples will suffice 
me. I cannot, unfortunately, return them, since 
I do not know their sender’s address, but I feel 
under no obligation to charter either camels or 
whale - boats, in order to go and make their 
acquaintance upon a larger scale. 
As for the mere ferocity and killing powers of 
Nature we are not without a taste of her capacity 
even in that respect. Apart from the wild 
creatures, which have to look out for themselves, 
she exacts in weather like this a pretty stiff list 
of victims from the old, the weakly, and the very 
young. My energetic chow Mongo insisted upon 
my taking him for a late run through the snow 
this afternoon, and, as we stood for a moment 
near the stile, there came up a melancholy little 
chorus of bleatings from some sheepfold in the 
valley below us. I peered over into the white 
darkness, but could see nothing; Mongo licked 
his lips, and I earnestly trust that he was not 
thinking of mutton. It may be mere weakness 
on my part, but I have always felt glad that in 
my various communings with the good green 
earth I have stopped short at the garden, the 
wood, the bog, the hillside, and have never once 
