May 11.—The continuous scorching sunshine of the last few days has been embittered by an easterly wind equally continuous, and causing sudden shivers in the midst of the heat. At night the wind sinks, and the valleys are filled by white mist, sometimes chill to freezing-point. As usual, in the morning I asked Bettesworth if there had been any frost.

“I dunno, sir,” he said. “'Twas pretty cold. When I got up an' went 'long my garden 'twas so cold you could ha' bore a great coat on. But I dunno whether there was any frost. Reg'lar cold little bottom that is down there. As soon 's I got out o' bed 's mornin' an' drawed the curtain you could hear the wind. ‘'Ark at the wind,’ I says to my old gal. ‘Yes,’ she says; 'sounds like winter, don't it?' An' when she looked out she says, ‘There's ol’ Dickey's smoke gwine up the valley agen.' Ol' Dickey Harris that is, ye know, what lives jest below us. We can always tell by his smoke—when there's a east wind it drives right up the valley. An' 't was cold when I got out. But I dunno whether ther' was any frost. Now, yesterday mornin' (Sunday) Will Crawte over here said as there was a frost down in the bottom. But I wa'n't up soon 'nough to see.