Sunday, November seventeenth.
We jumped from bed in a hurry this morning believing that the apparent stillness boded a calm day and a fit one for the Seward trip. But the sea beyond our cove was running swiftly and within two hours there was a gale of wind and some snow. Cold it was and dark. We’d hardly put the lamp out after breakfast, before we lighted it again for late dinner. Still in that short daylight I painted and Rockwell skated and painted, and we both cut a lot of wood. I’ve spent the evening writing, trying an article for “The Modern School.” We turned my boat over and secured it to the ground with ropes just in time to escape the fall of snow to-night that lies deep on the ground. The moon is up and through the clouds there comes a general illumination like daylight.