FOOTPRINTS ON THE SNOW. 



A SNOWSTORM in town is no doubt regarded for 

 the most part by the order-loving citizen, re- 

 membering the worries that follow in its train, with 

 anything but friendly eyes. He may tolerate it as 

 long as he is in the country. He may, indeed, look 

 out on the smooth lawn through windows that never 

 rattle with the roar of London with something of 

 pleasure in its sunlit beauty. He may even cheer his 

 youngsters on to face with bold hearts the stinging 

 missiles, in their hot conflict in the trampled snow, 

 while old memories stir his pulses of the day when he, 

 too, stood up to the fire of the enemy as coolly as the 

 last hero at Maiwand. 



But he turns away with a sigh, knowing that in the 

 streets of the town the snow will stop the traffic, break 

 down the wires, and turn every street into a sea of 

 slush. 



In town the snow to him is nothing but a nuisance. 

 But in the open country, where long after it has fallen 



