66 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 



waves came up from the sea. Long before sun- 

 rise I was awakened by the quacking of domes- 

 tic ducks in the inlet just in front of my 

 windows. Fog and a gentle east wind ruled the 

 morning, and the fog made queer work with 

 outlines and perspective among the sand-hills. 

 Not far from the house there once stood a fine 

 orchard, many of the trees in which had attained 

 a generous size considering their exposed situa- 

 tion. But the dunes marked them for destruc- 

 tion. The greedy sand piled itself around 

 their roots, rose higher and higher on their 

 trunks, caught the tips of their lower branches, 

 dragged them under its cold and deadly 

 weight, reached up to those higher, and, as the 

 trees began to pine, hurled itself against their 

 dry leaves, twigs, and branches, then set to work 

 to wear away the trunks themselves. Rising 

 through the fog, these remains seemed like tor- 

 tured victims reaching out distorted arms for 

 pity. Only a few of the trees retained branches 

 having green wood and pliable twigs, and these 

 were half buried by recent inroads of sand. 

 They reminded me of the fate of men caught in 

 quicksands, and drawn down inch by inch to 

 their death. 



Tracks in sand are almost as telling records 

 as tracks in snow. Skunks had wandered about 

 over these ridges in force. They do not find 



