Wednesday, December eleventh.
Yesterday was too gloomy a day for me to risk a page in this journal. As to weather it was another fierce one, cold and windy. As to work accomplished—nothing. Olson in his cabin, on such a day, is a treat to see. I open the door and enter. There he sits near the stove, a black astrakhan cap on his head and the two female goats in full possession of the cabin. Nanny the milch goat is a most affectionate creature. She lays her head on Olson’s lap and as he scratches her head her eyes close in blissful content.
“See her pretty little face,” says Olson, “and her lovely lips.” He’s certainly the kindest creature to animals—and to human ones too we have good reason to know.
To-day it is milder. The vapor is thick on the bay but it lies low upon the water and the magnificent mountains sparkle in the sunlight.
Work has gone better for me and it has been a day not without accomplishment. I baked bread—beautiful bread, cut wood, helped Olson a bit, and had a glorious rough-house with my son. He’s a great fighter. I train him for the fights he’s bound to have some day by letting him attack me with all his strength; and that has come to be not a little thing.
