WOODLAND PATHS 



it away from its moorings, obliging the 

 very north wind that made it to pile it 

 in long windrows high on shore. To 

 clamber along these pressure ridges and 

 hear the crunching cakes resound under 

 my tread in hollow, frosty tones, to feel 

 the bite of the north wind which drifted 

 across the new ice, was to step out of 

 the spring promise which the birds had 

 given me, back into the Arctic. I was 

 almost ready to look for seal and wonder 

 if I would n't soon hear the wild wolf- 

 howl of Eskimo dogs and round a point 

 onto one of their snow-igloo villages. 



The song sparrow was far out of hear- 

 ing and here we were in mid-winter 

 again. Only in the east was there prom- 

 ise. Through the dark tracery of pond- 

 bordering trees I could see the sky all a 

 soft, unearthly green, like an impression- 

 ist lawn, and all through this the sun, now 



36 



