e same way for a year, in which I cordially agreed.) Sundry practical
difficulties had to be faced and overcome. There was one of the common
spring mattresses of the country in the little room which opened from
the living room, but nothing upon it. This was remedied by making a
large bag and filling it with hay. Then there were neither sheets,
towels, nor table-clothes. This was irremediable, and I never missed
the first or last. Candles were another loss, and we had only one
paraffin lamp. I slept all night in spite of a gale which blew all
Sunday and into Monday afternoon, threatening to lift the cabin from
the ground, and actually removing part of the roof from the little room
between the kitchen and living room, in which we used to dine. Sunday
was brilliant, but nearly a hurricane, and I dared not stir outside the
cabin. The parlor was two inches deep in the mud from the roof. We
nominally divide the cooking. Mr. Kavan makes the best bread I ever
ate; they bring in wood and water, and wash the supper things, and I
"do" my room and the parlor, wash the breakfast things, and number of
etceteras. My room is easily "done," but the parlor is a never-ending
business. I have swept shovelfuls of mud out of it three times to-day.
There is nothing to dust it with but a buffalo's tail, and every now
and then a gust descends the open chimney and drives the wood ashes all
over the room. However, I have found an old shawl which answers for a
table-cloth, and have made our "parlor" look a little more habitable.
Jim came in yesterday in a silent mood, and sat looking vacantly into
the fire. The young men said that this mood was the usual precursor of
an "ugly fit."

Food is a great difficulty. Of thirty milch cows only one is left, and
she does not give milk enough for us to drink. The only meat is some
pickled pork, very salt and hard, which I cannot eat, and the hens lay
less than one egg a day. Yesterday morning I made some rolls, and made
the last bread into a bread-and-butter pudding, which we all enjoyed.
To-day I found part of a leg of beef hanging in the wagon shed, and we
were elated with the prospect of fresh meat, but on cutting into it we
found it green and uneatable. Had it not been for some tea which was
bestowed upon me at the inn at Longmount we should have had none. In
this superb air and physically active life I can eat everything but
pickled pork. We breakfast about nine, dine at two, and have