ends. _Montreal, old address_. There is nothing much that I can add.
I did not travel last night because the trains had been changed, and
I should have had to wait two or three hours at a wretched little
hole in the small hours of the morning. I therefore slept the night
in Sherbrooke, and got here by a train arriving at noon. Having fed
and got my baggage stowed away, I hunted up my two principal
backers, at least I hunted for them but was unsuccessful, so I can't
tell you anything about what's been done for me during my absence. I
believe I've got rather more baggage than Henry. When we split it
up it was found that I needed both portmanteaus and the Canadian
box as well, that I now have a fearful lot of packages to lug about,
including my gun and rifle. The rifle reminds me of old Daddy. How's
he getting on? Making big strides, I hope? He'll need all he can
make when I come to see him. I seem to be always ready for a guzzle
now. I wish you could have had the journey I did this morning; I am
sure you would have enjoyed it, though the train had suddenly
developed amphibious proclivities whilst going over a bridge. What
one hears of the "autumn tints" here is rather the reverse of
exaggerated. Nearly the whole way from Sherbrooke to Montreal is
through woods, and they are all a blaze of red in every shade, from
the brightest fieriest crimson to a dark purple, that is, all except
those which are green or yellow. The mixture is much prettier than
all one colour would be, and by contrast with the dark
scraggy-looking pines, it does not look the least gaudy. Well, I'm
going to shut up and do some reading. So good bye for the present,
and best love to everyone under the sun when it shines in Dawlish.

Your loving Son,
J. SETON COCKBURN.