From St. James's Gazette.
THAWING A VILLAGE.

Henders would clear away the snow from his door he would be "varra obleged." Henders, however, had to come to terms first. "The chairge is saxpence, Davit!" he shouted. Then a haggling ensued. Henders must be neighborly. A plate of But

JUST five years ago several "auld lichts" got up at six o'clock in the morning to look for their village, and could not see it anywhere. I was in one of the half-broth, now—or, say, twopence. dozen two-storied houses in the place, and could have shaken hands with my friends without from the upper windows. To get out of doors you had to walk up-stairs. The outlook was a sea of snow fading into white hills and sky, with the quarry standing out red and ragged to the right like a rock in the ocean. The manse was gone, but had left its garden trees behind, their branches growing from the snow. Roofs were humps in the white blanket. The spire of the Established Kirk stood up cold and stiff, like a monument to the buried inhabitant.

Henders was obdurate. "I'se nae time to argybargy wi' ye, Davit. Gin ye're no willin' to say saxpence, I'm aff to Will'um Pyatt's. He's buried too." So the victim had to make up his mind to one of two things: he must either "say saxpence " or remain where he was.

Those of the villagers who had taken the precaution of conveying spades into their houses the night before, dug them selves out. They hobbled cautiously over the snow, sometimes sinking into it to their knees, when they stood still and slowly took in the situation. It had been snowing more or less for a week, but in a commonplace kind of way, and they had gone to bed thinking all was well. This night the snow must have fallen as if the heavens had opened up, determined to shake themselves free of it forever.

The man who first came to himself and saw what was to be done was Henders Mealmaker. Henders had no fixed occupation, being but an "orra man" about the village, and the best thing known of him was that his mother's sister was a Baptist. He feared God, man, nor the minister; and all the learning he had was obtained from assiduous study of our grocer's window. But for one brief day he had things his own way in the village, or, speaking strictly, on the top of it. With a spade, a broom, and a pickaxe, which sat lightly on his broad shoulders (he was not even back-bent, and that showed him no respectable weaver), Henders delved his way to the nearest house, which formed one of a row, and addressed the inmates down the chimney. They had already been clearing it at the other end, or his words would have been choked. "You're snawed up, Davit," cried Henders, in a voice that was entirely businesslike; “hae ye a spade?" A conversation ensued up and down this unusual channel of communication. The unlucky householder, taking no thought of the morrow, was without a spade. But if

If Henders was "promised," he took good care that no snowed-up villager should perjure himself. He made his way to a window first, and, clearing the snow from the top of it, pointed out that he could not conscientiously proceed further until the debt had been paid. "Money doon!" he cried in, as soon as he reached a pane of glass; or, "Come awa wi' my saxpence noo!"

The belief that this day had not come to Henders unexpectedly was borne out by the methodical nature of his procedure. His charges varied from sixpence to half a crown, according to the wealth and status of his victims; and when, later on, there were rivals in the snow, he had the discrimination to reduce his minimum fee to threepence. He had the honor of dig ging out three ministers at one shilling, one and threepence, and two shillings respectively.

Half-a-dozen times within the next fortnight the village was reburied in snow. This generally happened in the nighttime; but the villagers were not to be caught unprepared again. Spades stood ready to their hands in the morning, and they fought their way above ground without Henders Mealmaker's assistance. To clear the snow from the narrow wynds and streets, however, was a task not to be attempted; and the villagers rested content when enough light got into their workshops to let them see where their looms stood. Wading through beds of snow they did not much mind; but they wondered what would happen to their houses when the thaw came.

But the thaw was slow in coming. Snow during the night and several degrees of frost by day was what we began to accept as a revised order of nature. Vainly the village doctor, whose practice extended into the glens, made repeated attempts to reach his distant patients, twice driving so far into the wilderness of snow that he could neither go on nor turn back. A

ploughman who contrived to gallop ten miles for him did not get home for a week. Between the village, which is nowadays an agricultural centre of some importance, and the outlying farms communication had been cut off for a month; and we heard subsequently of one farmer who did not see a human being, unconnected with his own farm and sleeping at it, for seven weeks. Two country schools not three miles distant were closed for weeks, and even in the village there was only a sprinkling of scholars.

etrated through roofs of slate and thatch; and it was quite a common thing for a man to be flattened to the ground by a "slithering" of snow from above just as he opened his door. But it had seldom more than ten feet to fall. Most interest. ing of all was the novel sensation experi. enced as the village began to assume its familiar aspect, and objects so long buried that they had been half forgotten came back to view and use.

where it had not been piled up in walls a few feet from the houses, it remained in the narrow ways till it became a lake. It tried to escape through doorways, when it sank slowly into the earthen floors. Gentle breezes created a ripple on its surface, and strong winds lifted it into the air and flung it against the houses. It undermined the heaps of clotted snow till they tottered like icebergs and fell to pieces. Men made their way through it on stilts. Had a frost followed, the result would have been appalling; but there was no On Sundays the feeling between the more frost that winter. A fortnight passed different denominations ran high, and the before the place looked itself again, and good folk who did not go to church even then heaps of snow stood their counted those who did. In the Estab-ground in the streets, while the country lished Church there was a creditable gath-roads were like newly ploughed fields after ering, who waited in vain for the minister. rain. The heat from large fires soon penAfter a time it got abroad that a flag of distress was flying from the manse, and then it was seen that the minister was storm-staid. An office-bearer offered to conduct service; but the others present thought they had done their duty and went home. The U. P. bell did not ring at all, and the kirk gates were not opened. The Free Kirk did bravely however. The attendance in the forenoon amounted to seven, including the minister; but in the afternoon there was a turn out of upwards of fifty. How much denominational competition had to do with this, none can say ; but the general opinion was that this muster to afternoon service was a piece of vainglory. Next Sunday all the kirks were on their mettle, and, though the snow was drifting the whole day, services were general. It was felt that after the action of the Free Kirk the "Establisheds" and the U. P.'s must show what they too were capable of. So, when the bells rang at eleven o'clock and two, church-goers began to pour out of every close. If I remember aright, the victory lay with the U. P.'s by two women and a boy. What was regarded as a judgment on the Free Kirk for its boastfulness of spirit on the preceding Sunday happened during the forenoon. While the service was taking place a great clod of snow slipped from the roof and fell right against the church-door. It was some time before the prisoners could make up their minds to leave by the windows; and even yet they are not certain that it was a proper thing to do.

That was the first warning of the thaw. It froze again; there was more snow; the thaw set in in earnest; and then the streets were a sight to see. There was no traffic to turn the snow to slush, and

From St. James's Gazette. THE CROSSBILL.

THE frost and desolation of northern regions have driven down many rare birds, and we have just flushed a flock of snowbuntings in winter plumage from a field of rye-grass. The "gleades" are driven from the fells, and one or more pairs are circling the valley. Woodcock and snipe come to the springs, and duck and wild geese to the still mountain tarns. The poacher will have a glorious time with his " gins," and "springes," and nets. Now he closely scans the weather, and will at evening pass under the wood and down by the "hag" path. Heavily does he wade through the snow, his old black bitch doggedly following at his heels. And still, softly silent, the snow continues to fall.

For hours from my lookout I have been sweeping with my glass the snow-plumed pines in search of a flock of interesting birds that do not appear. But in such weather as this the crossbills always ar rive. In severe winters I have never looked in vain for them in the pine wood. There they are! - now on the upper, now

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