Thanksgiving Day

The thing dreaded has come at last, a snowstorm, with a north-east wind.  It ceased about midnight, but not till it had covered my bed.  Then the mercury fell below zero, and everything froze.  I melted a tin of water for washing by the fire, but it was hard frozen before I could use it.  My hair, which was thoroughly wet with the thawed snow of yesterday, is hard frozen in plaits.  The milk and treacle are like rock, the eggs have to be kept on the coolest part of the stove to keep them fluid.  Two calves in the shed were frozen to death.  Half our floor is deep in snow, and it is so cold that we cannot open the door to shovel it out.  The snow began again at eight this morning, very fine and hard.  It blows in through the chinks and dusts this letter while I write.  Mr. Kavan keeps my ink-bottle close to the fire, and hands it to me every time that I need to dip my pen.  We have a huge fire, but cannot raise the temperature above 20°.  Ever since I returned the lake has been hard enough to bear a wagon, but today it is difficult to keep the waterhole open by the constant use of the axe.  The snow may either melt or block us in.  Our only anxiety is about the supplies.  We have tea and coffee enough to last over tomorrow, the sugar is just done, and the flour is getting low.  It is really serious that we have “another mouth to feed,” and the new-comer is a ravenous creature, eating more than the three of us.  It dismays me to see his hungry eyes gauging the supply at breakfast, and to see the loaf disappear.  He told me this morning that he could eat the whole of what was on the table.  He is mad after food, and I see that Mr. K. is starving himself to make it hold out.  Mr. Buchan is very far from well, and dreads the prospect of “half rations.”  All this sounds laughable, but we shall not laugh if we have to look hunger in the face!  Now in the evening the snow clouds, which have blotted out all things, are lifting, and the winter scene is wonderful.  The mercury is 5° below zero, and the aurora is glorious.  In my unchinked room the mercury is 1° below zero.  Mr. Buchan can hardly get his breath; the dryness is intense.  We spent the afternoon cooking the Thanksgiving dinner.  I made a wonderful pudding, for which I had saved eggs and cream for days, and dried and stoned cherries supplied the place of currants.  I made a bowl of custard for sauce, which the men said was “splendid;” also a rolled pudding, with molasses; and we had venison steaks and potatoes, but for tea we were obliged to use the tea-leaves of the morning again.  I should think that few people in America have enjoyed their Thanksgiving dinner more.  We had urged Mr. Nugent to join us, but he refused, almost savagely, which we regretted.  My four-pound cake made yesterday is all gone!  This wretched boy confesses that he was so hungry in the night that he got up and ate nearly half of it.  He is trying to cajole me into making another.

I.L.B