To make excursions to a short distance from this pretty town of
Ramelton and to return again has been my occupation for the last week.
It was arranged that on Monday, March 21st, I was to go with some kind
friends to see life up among the mountains of Donegal, but down came
another storm. Snow, hail, sleet, rain, hail, sleet and rain again.
Storms rule and reign among these hills this March, destroying all
prospect of March dust I am afraid. Nothing could be done but wait till
the storm was over, going to the windows once in a while to watch the
snow driving past, or to notice that it had changed to sleet or rain.

The mountain tops are white again, and look wild and wintry. To-day it
rains with a will. The cold here at present is more chill and
penetrating than Canadian cold. I have put on more, and yet more
clothing, and I am cold. Many, very many, people during the past dreary
winter have had no bed-clothes at all.

I am afraid from what I see and hear that the famine was more dreadful
here in Donegal than we in Canada imagined. Plenty of people even now
are living on Indian meal stirabout, without milk or anything else to
take with it. This, three times a day, and thankful to have enough of it
to satisfy hunger. It was pitiful to see little children and aged women,
with but thin clothes on, walking barefoot through the snowy slush of
yesterday.

My attention was drawn to a ballad singer, almost blind, "whose looped
and windowed raggedness" was picturesque. His dreary attempts at singing
with his teeth chattering, the rain and sleet searching out every corner
of his rags, was pitiful. He was hardly able to stand against the
cutting wind. I sent out and bought his ballad as an excuse to give him