THE RECORD OF THE SNOW 



UNTIL the snow comes the book of nature 

 lacks an index. You may walk for days in 

 succession through familiar fields and woods 

 without suspecting the existence all about 

 you of scores of timid wild creatures, whose 

 habit is to sleep by day, or who retreat noise 

 lessly at your approach to places of cunning 

 concealment. It is marvelous at what a dis 

 tance the slight vibration of the ground 

 under the human foot can be detected by the 

 delicate, fear-quickened senses of the little 

 inhabitants of the woods and fields. I some 

 times fancy that they can hear me coming 

 almost as far away as a boy can hear a train 

 of cars when he kneels down and lays his 

 ear to the rails. If, therefore, you live in a 

 thickly settled part of the country, where the 

 wild creatures are few in number and con 

 stantly harassed and terrified, you will be 

 apt to think until the snow comes that 

 your neighborhood is entirely deserted by 

 the wilder small birds and animals. You 



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