I have had my usual walk, notwithstanding the storm. My furs are now thrown off, and faithful old Carl is beating the snow out of them. It was pounded in by the force of the wind to the very skin, and I was one mass of whiteness. Beard and face were covered, as well as my clothing, and I was not in appearance unlike what I used to imagine Kriss Kringle might be when, "in the days of other years," I fancied him to be making his annual tour of the house-tops.
And my walk has been one of some hardship. I ventured too far out on the sea, and, miscalculating the force of the wind, I found, when I had to face it on my return, that I had before me a somewhat serious task. In the distance I could faintly distinguish the ship's light, and as blast after blast lashed my face with snow, seemingly in malicious spite, and each time with greater fury, I must confess that I more than once wished myself well out of the scrape.
In truth, I was in some danger. The frost touched my cheeks, and, indeed, I should have had no face left had I not repeatedly turned my back to the wind and revived the frosted flesh with my unmittened hand.
DRIFTING SNOW. But now that I have got snugly stowed away in warmth, I am far from sorry for the adventure. My motive in going out was to get a full view of the storm. The snow which has lately fallen is very deep, and the wind, picking it up from hill-side and valley, seemed to fill the whole atmosphere with a volume of flying whiteness. It streamed over the mountains, and gleamed like witches' hair along their summits. Great clouds rushed frantically down the slopes, and spun over the cliffs in graceful forms of fantastic lightness, and thence whirled out over the frozen sea,
