December

December 7th.--I have been to England. I went for at least
a month and stayed a week in a fog and was blown home again in a gale.
Twice I fled before the fogs into the country to see friends
with gardens, but it was raining, and except the beautiful lawns
(not to be had in the Fatherland) and the infinite possibilities,
there was nothing to interest the intelligent and garden-loving foreigner,
for the good reason that you cannot be interested in gardens under
an umbrella. So I went back to the fogs, and after groping
about for a few days more began to long inordinately for Germany.
A terrific gale sprang up after I had started, and the journey both
by sea and land was full of horrors, the trains in Germany being
heated to such an extent that it is next to impossible to sit still,
great gusts of hot air coming up under the cushions, the cushions
themselves being very hot, and the wretched traveller still hotter.

But when I reached my home and got out of the train into the purest,
brightest snow-atmosphere, the air so still that the whole world seemed
to be listening, the sky cloudless, the crisp snow sparkling underfoot
and on the trees, and a happy row of three beaming babies awaiting me,
I was consoled for all my torments, only remembering them enough to wonder
why I had gone away at all.

The babies each had a kitten in one hand and an elegant
bouquet of pine needles and grass in the other, and what with
the due presentation of the bouquets and the struggles of
the kittens, the hugging and kissing was much interfered with.
Kittens, bouquets, and babies were all somehow squeezed into
the sleigh, and off we went with jingling bells and shrieks
of delight.
"Directly you comes home the fun begins," said the May baby,
sitting very close to me. "How the snow purrs!" cried the
April baby, as the horses scrunched it up with their feet.
The June baby sat loudly singing "The King of Love my Shepherd is,"
and swinging her kitten round by its tail to emphasise the rhythm.

The house, half-buried in the snow, looked the very abode
of peace, and I ran through all the rooms, eager to take possession
of them again, and feeling as though I had been away for ever.
When I got to the library I came to a standstill,--ah, the dear room,
what happy times I have spent in it rummaging amongst the books,
making plans for my garden, building castles in the air, writing,
dreaming, doing nothing! There was a big peat fire blazing half up
the chimney, and the old housekeeper had put pots of flowers about,
and on the writingtable was a great bunch of violets scenting the room.
"Oh, how good it is to be home again!" I sighed in my satisfaction.
The babies clung about my