At last winter came upon us in earnest. It had been threatening for a considerable time. Sharp frosts had occurred during the nights, and more than once we had on rising found thin ice forming on the lake, though the motion of the running water had as yet prevented our stream from freezing; but towards the end of October there came a day which completely changed the condition and appearance of things.

 

Every one knows the peculiar¹, I may say the exhilarating, sensations that are experienced when one looks out from one’s window and beholds² the landscape covered completely with the first snows of winter.

 

Well, those sensations were experienced on the occasion of which I write in somewhat peculiar circumstances. Lumley and I were out hunting at the time: we had been successful; and, having wandered far from the fort, resolved to encamp in the woods, and return home early in the morning.

 

“I do love to bivouac in the forest,” I said, as we busied ourselves spreading brush-wood on the ground, preparing the kettle, plucking our game, and kindling³ the fire, “especially at this season of the year, when the sharp nights render the fire so agreeable.”

 

“Yes,” said Lumley, “and the sharp appetites render food so delightful⁴.”

 

“To say nothing,” I added, “of the sharp wits that render intercourse⁵ so pleasant.”

 

“Ah, and not to mention,” retorted Lumley, “the dull wits, stirred into unwonted activity, which tone down that intercourse with flashes of weakly humour. Now then, Max, clap on more wood. Don’t spare the firing—there’s plenty of it, so—isn’t it grand to see the thick smoke towering upwards⁷ straight and solid like a pillar!”

 

“Seldom that one experiences a calm so perfect,” said I, glancing upward at the slowly-rising smoke. “Don’t you think it is the proverbial calm before the storm?”

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