Wednesday, January eighth.
Two more days and Olson still away. I’m furious at him. Yesterday he could well have come, to-day it has been impossible. We seem to do little here but wait. Even at the height of to-day’s storm I found myself continually going to the little window to look for a boat. Rain and snow, rain and snow! Ah, if only we had our mail here—then these warm, white days would be delightful. Yesterday we wore our snowshoes for the first time, but only to tramp down the cove and look toward Seward.
The only recompense for Olson’s absence is Nanny’s milk. I’m an expert milker now and can do the job before she finishes her cup of oats. I have to, for at the finish she leaps madly to escape me. Goat’s milk junket and orange marmalade; sublime!