We didn't get to Blue Mountain today,- nor any other mountain. Hardly slept a wink all night, listening to the rain,- for it commenced to pour at midnight, and kept steadily up until midnight tonight. We woke up,- or rather got up,- at eight, and spent two hours looking for fairly dry wood, and pulled off breakfast at the very fashionable hour of ten,- beans, bread, and coffee. I think we had ham, but Fred says no, and he ought to be an authority, as he's the cook.

I wrote to P--- this morning,- alternating that pleasure with running out to the fire to get warm every little while,- like the date of issue of Elbert Hubbard's Philistine.

Dinner at three. This time I'm blame sure we had ham,- I can taste it now,- and Fritz agrees with me. He says we also had fried potatoes and tea, and I guess we did.

I can appreciate how Harris, in Jerome's "Three Men in a Boat" felt, when he said, after the author's beautiful description of a starlight night on the Thames, "How about when it rains?" My Lord, how it did, and does, come down, with no sign of a let up.