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Our Sitting-room.

Oct. 21.—Just through supper and everyone has settled down to read, excepting several who have gone out to "call at the neighbors'." C. C. Reynolds, our president, undertaker, preacher, all-around-man, has taken to cooking. He started in well. For supper he gave us some fine tarts. I am glad to be relieved from the cooking, and do not intend to engage in the business again. We shall see.

I am skinning mice now, little red-backed fellows which swarm in the woods and around the houses. I set my traps every night. This morning I had a dozen. Wolverines and foxes are common about here, but they are too cute for me and decline to be caught in the steel traps which I keep constantly set for them. An Indian shot two deer in the mountains and brought them to the village. The doctor traded for some venison, which is better than the bear meat, though I have no craving for either. The boys think me a baby because I prefer "mush" to meat.

Last Sunday the temperature fell to even zero. The trees were heavily covered with hoar frost, and the scene, as the sun rose upon it, was magnificent.