As the day began to dawn I awoke; the snow was still falling, but the wind was solemnly lulled. The silence was awful—it was dead, and Nature lay cadaverous in a winding sheet. Once, indeed, I heard the wood-partridge drumming on a neighbouring tree,—a muffled hollow sound, which reminded me of the nailing of a coffin. As I stood at the door of the shanty, thrilling with desolate fancies, the labouring forest, oppressed with the wintry weight, fetched as it were a deep and weary breath in adjusting its burden, and the snow fell in dumb masses around, as numerous as the yellow leaves in autumn, suggesting spectre thoughts about the end of all things. It was altogether such a morning as may be when the death of universal life shall have come.

The snow reached above my knees, and we were still upwards of eight miles from Babelmandel: as it had fallen so early, it was thought it would not stay long; and we had some idea, our provisions being still sufficient for two days, to remain where we were, in the hope of a thaw; but Bailie Waft sensibly remarked, “What if another snowstorm come before it?” This settled the question. After having taken breakfast, we prepared for the road, but in less desultory array than when we took the field.

The bailie, as compass-bearer, of course led the van—no man could do the duty more carefully. He carried the instrument cautiously in the palm of his out-stretched hand, and without uttering a word, as on the preceding day, he studiously, and with undeviating eye, followed the pointing of the needle. The men with the burdens went next, and then my son, and last of all, to have the benefit of their trodden path, I hirpled in the rear.

It would fatigue the indulgent reader to recount the toil and hardships of that journey, the indescribable labour of the bush travelling being increased manifold by the deep snow.