Stables in the congealing slush with my mountainous mustangs. The Poet has contrived to get some fearful kicks on the shins and now imitates the Hunter’s stretching contortions. The evening bade fair, so I strolled up hill and sketched. A fantastic funnel-shaped thunder-cloud came coiling out of the westering sun, like the Gin the in Arabian Nights. I had the unseen but close company of a most industrious mole, who kept pumping out fine red earth in great style.