Well, this arn't in pencil, and it arn't my name, it's ink, and such
ink! I believe it's made from charcoal. Everything here is made of
wood, even to the fire-irons and hearthstones. We are not where we
was. Different portions of this letter have been inscribed in
different places (small chance of your being able to read it if it had
not). It was begun in Montreal, continued in Sherbrooke, and I am now
writing at the Eastern Township Hotel, Eton Corner, near Birchton,
P.Q., which I have every reason to believe will be Henry's field of
action. I may hereafter be able to add for certain that he is settled,
and upon what terms. All I can say at present is that a certain farmer
named Hardy has consented to take him. I have not seen the man yet, he
was called away suddenly on some important business and could not let
me know in time to stop rife coming here to see him. I am told it's a
first-rate farm and the man is well off, which is security against
Henry suddenly being discharged owing to impecuniosity on the farmer's
part, a thing which seems to be of pretty frequent occurrence about
here, or, in fact, anywhere else. We went out to the farm this
morning, and saw the man's father, who lives with him; he is a very
decent old chap, but he is going away on Sunday for some time. Henry
liked the look of the place very much indeed. It is about sixteen
miles from Sherbrooke, and four-and-a-half from the station
(Birchton). The country is a good deal wilder than any we have seen
yet, though very pretty, nothing but wood all round, mostly pine, but
not large timber. The village is also a pretty little place, it looks
like a few houses--all wood--built in a field, with a road running
through the middle of them, a road that would be considered a disgrace
to any county in England, but which passes for a very fair one here.
By-the-bye, jack-boots are such an evident necessity here that I
advised Henry to get another pair before he left Sherbrooke, which he
did for $2 25c., or about nine shillings. Boots of every sort are much