have lived long without me. Bitterly-too well-I know how little now I am missed. And so I sit before my fire, with the silent, wise companions of my soberer years-my books. I have time to think -to remember the old, dear days, the friends who are dead, and those, still dear, who are also dead in a bitterer, sadder sense. Some consolation my own fidelity brings me. I will not break down the old idols, but always with regretful tenderness think of the lost as they were when they were by my side. In the spring my trees will grow and my flowers bloom. Nature is kind, for these speechless and eloquent creations shall keep my soul active.

JANUARY 10. Thermometer 8° below at sunrise; still and clear. All branches white with frost. Through the night loud sounds of objects contracting through the cold. I go rabbit-hunting with Jacob, Joseph, and Ben Rieker. We got five rabbits, and walked home by the road from Dead Man's Hill. We go to the Hermitage and play whist. I have great labor in abolishing the clamor over bad hands. It was a bear-garden until I firmly put down the custom of groaning every time the cards are dealt.

JANUARY 11. My carpenters do not come, although the weather is mild. I have my rabbit

stewed with onion and potato. I send to Savarus Busch his appointment to be fireman on the N. Y. & St. L. R. R., which Nick Werk kindly makes at my request. Shef writes for wool mattresses to Louis, and slyly digs me for having, two years ago, presented the same to him without delivery. Louis and I are arranging to heap coals of fire on his head.

Louis's birthday. We shall have a punch tonight at the Hermitage. The foundations for the new hotel are excavated to-day. The celebration of Louis's birthday-punch and oysters-went off merrily. A digression on the subject of the wasteful use of butter for culinary purposes makes some ill feeling. Among the crotchets of antique Zoar is the idea of Israel that pork is unclean and lard may not be used. This notion involves a loss of over five hundred dollars a year. Clamor over the cutting off of wine while cutting iceanother custom more honored in the breach-makes confusion. There is a deathless thirst gnawing in the male Zoar stomach. The trustees have to harmonize old differences and make every one happy -an almost impossible, as it is a wholly thankless task.

The weather turns warm and the snow rapidly disappears. My carpenters work on the summer

house during the afternoon-Birroway one of them, a gentle, handsome, middle-aged man, who has the reputation of being the champion fighter of Bolivar. I have a respect for these strong and foolishly fearless men, always in wonder why they should fight at all. There is little difference between the victor and the vanquished-both are hurt, only one holds out longer than the other. And yet great Christian nations fight in the same brutal way, and grave and reverend men in solemn council decide for war.

JANUARY 12. The weather still mild, with wretched slush under foot. The carpenters work all day, and set the rafters up. The outline is complete and of good proportion. In the evening, sleet, with wind, and afterward loud, gusty squalls of snow. I stay in my room and read "Les Misérables."

JANUARY 13. The sottish carpenters, making an excuse of the snow, do not come. The day is mild and fine. I cut the bark for the roof to my summer house. At night sleet falls again. I shall go home on Saturday, and leave what is unfinished on the summer house until spring.

JANUARY 14. Snow. We play whist in the evening. During the day I cut more bark for the summer house.

JANUARY 15. The mill-pond, where they begin to cut ice six inches thick, is like a vast floor of marble. The sleet of last night covers the trees with ice, and in the sunshine they blaze with incredible, unearthly splendor. The Green Vault at Dresden would not furnish forth one branch of this dazzling light. The distant woods, iced in every twig, have a look of softness. Although the sky is cloudless, it is so cold the snow does not melt.

JUNE 4. Again it rains. The last thirty days have yielded not more than ten pleasant ones. Shirmer is in despair with his flooded fields, and I, with my little farm, am in a small way discomfited. My trees grow apace, and their fresh leaves continually delight me; one of the apple trees will bear. My hands are hard again-the first time since 1858, nearly thirty-five years. I come easily again to labor, which brings hunger, weariness, and profound sleep. My little garden makes me strong. I look upon my growing plants with a pure delight. So little is left in the world, I find a secure retreat here. I am telegraphed for by Mr. Edwards to come to town and join a party of men to go to White's horse farm. He baits it with hints of "good dinner" and "good time." I will go. I am loath, after all, to cast off from all my old

friends. The bowl still makes me merry, and my too fluent speech often raises a laugh among the old crowd who do not despise a well-worn jest.

The new hotel is, between drenchings, approaching completion. There is much to criticize. The plumbing is ill placed and the carpentry scamped.

Yesterday's storm made havoc with the ancient apple trees, destroying four or five. Lightning struck near John's house, and from the farm-house a chimney was blown down.

During the storm I was in the annex, and was terrified by the cracking of thunder, with a deluge of rain and a hurricane of wind. My tomato and cabbage plants were quite flat.

I went last Saturday to Pollock's, to dine at 2.30. We had the double magnum of champagne, broiled chicken, and pork and beans-Caldwell, Kin, Hogan, Barrett, Pollock, and I. Caldwell and Pollock drank nothing, so the rest had the wine. After dinner we went with Splan to see the horses. We descanted upon them, and I expressed great contempt for the waste of money in training horses. Mr. and Mrs. Edwards drove in. We returned to the house, where conversation was unremitted and statements more and more inexact. Kin "turns over" several people whom he dislikes.

I came to Zoar the next day-Sunday afternoon