124 A SPEING AND SUMMER IN LAPLAND. 



A NIGHT IN THE SNOW. 



" Like a dead man gone to his shroud, 

 The sun has sunk in a leaden cloud, 

 And fche wind is rising bleak and loud, 



With many a stormy token, 

 Playing a wild funereal air, 

 Through the branches bleak, bereaved, and bare ; 



In fact, if the truth were spoken, 

 It's an ugly night for anywhere, 



But an awful one for the Brocken." — Hood. 



If the night of the 4th March was only half 

 as bad in England as in Sweden, I can well fancy- 

 that paterfamilias, comfortably seated by a blazing 

 fire in a well- curtained, well-carpeted parlour, over 

 his wine and walnnts, would draw himself closer 

 into the hearth as the wild wind and drifting snow 

 rattled against the casement, and remarking to 

 the family circle, "That it was a dreadful night, 

 God help those poor travellers who are out in 

 such a storm ! " would ring the bell for John to 

 throw another log on the fire, quietly compose 

 himself for a doze, and give the matter no further 

 thought. Doubtless there were many men out 

 on this wild night to whom one glimpse of that 

 cheery fire shining through his window would 

 have seemed almost as a ray of heavenly light ; 

 and as I myself was among the number, I will 

 relate the experiences of one of the longest and 

 worst nights I ever spent in my life, the very re- 

 membrance of which even now makes me shudder. 



