accumulated all sorts of reflective and imaginative stories there.

It is most kind of Aunt Nora and Uncle Henry--give my love and
thanks to both.

I grieve to say that many many more fish are found dead since the
thaw melted the banks of swept snow off the sides of the ice. It
is most piteous; the poor things seem to have come to the edge
where the water is shallowest--there is a shoal where we generally
feed the swans.

I am happy to say the goldfish seem all alive and merry. The
continual dropping of fresh water has no doubt saved them--they
were never hermetically sealed in like the other poor things.

Yesterday I was at Ringwould, near Dover. The farmers had been up
all night saving their cattle in the stalls from the sudden
floods.

Here we have not had any, though the earth is washed very much
from the hills in streaks.

We are--at least I am--dreadfully sorry to go to London--though
the house is very dull without "the boys."

All right about the books.--Ever your loving father,

Edw. Cantuar.

Hugh was much taken up with experiments in hypnotism as an