of tfyt 



something of a measure for the flight of the birds. 

 The majesty and the mystery of the distant buoyant 

 wings were singularly impressive. 



I have seen the turkey-buzzard sailing the skies on 

 the bitterest winter days. To-day, however, could 

 hardly be called winter. Indeed, nothing yet had felt 

 the pinch of the cold. There was no hunger yet in 

 the swamp, though this new snow had scared the 

 raccoons out, and their half-human tracks along the 

 margin of the swamp stream showed that, if not hun- 

 gry, they at least feared that they might be. 



For a coon hates snow. He will invariably sleep 

 off the first light snowfalls, and even in the late 

 winter he will not venture forth in fresh snow unless 

 driven by hunger or some other dire need. Perhaps, 

 like a cat or a hen, he dislikes the wetting of his feet. 

 Or it may be that the soft snow makes bad hunting 

 for him. The truth is, I believe, that such a snow 

 makes too good hunting for the dogs and the gunner. 

 The new snow tells too clear a story. His home is no 

 inaccessible den among the ledges ; only a hollow in 

 some ancient oak or tupelo. Once within, he is safe 

 from the dogs, but the long fierce fight for life taught 

 him generations ago that the nest-tree is a fatal trap 



26 



