40 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 



Pisgah, I made a bee line for Turkey or One 

 Pine Hill, in Arlington. Much of the interme- 

 diate region is filled with white pines. In one 

 grove of many hundred large pines, the effects of 

 the dark green roof, pure white floor and straight 

 brown columns forming radiating vistas were 

 impressive, none the less so from the silence and 

 the cold. From a brier thicket on the edge of 

 this wood a grouse flew noisily. Near Turkey 

 Hill was an odd meeting of paths in the snow. 

 A horse and sled, a man, a large dog, two quail, 

 a rabbit, and a mouse had all left their prints on 

 a square rod of snow. 



It was the last calendar day of winter. The 

 sun was going down in wrath. The wind blew 

 across the top of One Pine Hill impatiently. 

 One Pine, with its sixty stubs of dead and 

 broken branches, trembled, and told by its fee- 

 bleness of the approaching day when One Pine 

 Hill, successor of Three Pine Hill, shall become 

 No Pine Hill. 



March came in at midnight smiling. The big 

 yellow moon looked down upon the soft snow 

 which had fallen since sunset, wrapping the earth 

 in ermine. I chose Lincoln for my objective 

 point, and reached it by rail early in the fore- 

 noon. The air was keen, very keen, the sky 

 faintly blue through thin clouds, the sun only a 

 yellow spot in the south. Leaving the railway 



