A YEAR IN THE FIELDS 



went forth to face it in a two-mile walk. It 

 was exhilarating in the extreme. The snow 

 was lighter than chaff. It had been dried 

 in the Arctic ovens to the last degree. 

 The foot sped through it without hindrance. 

 I fancied the grouse and quails quietly sit- 

 ting down in the open places, and letting it 

 drift over them. With head under wing, 

 and wing snugly folded, they would be softly 

 and tenderly buried in a few moments. 

 The mice and the squirrels were in their 

 dens, but I fancied the fox asleep upon some 

 rock or log, and allowing the flakes to cover 

 him. The hare in her form, too, was being 

 warmly sepulchred with the rest. I thought 

 of the young cattle and the sheep huddled 

 together on the lee side of a haystack in 

 some remote field, all enveloped in mantles 

 of white. 



" I thought me on the ourie cattle, 

 Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle 



O' wintry war, 

 Or thro' the drift, deep-lairing sprattle, 



Beneath a scaur. 



" Ilk happing bird, wee helpless thing, 

 That in the merry months o' spring 

 Delighted me to hear thee sing, 



What comes o' thee ? 



Where wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, 

 And close thyee?" 

 6 



