12 SILVER FIELDS 



It is something out of common experience to 

 go into the woods in the night-time without 

 stumbhng over roots, logs, or bushes and groping 

 in constant fear of bringing up against a tree. No 

 danger now of bumping against trees that show 

 as plainly as in a summer day. The undergrowth 

 is bent down and snugly packed under the hard 

 crust, and brush heaps are bridged with it, and 

 trunks of fallen trees are faintly marked by slight 

 ridges that one walks over almost without know- 

 ing it. The partridge could not find his drum- 

 ming-log now if he wanted it, as he will not for 

 six weeks to come. Sad is his fate if he was caught 

 napping under the snow when this crust made, 

 but that, I think, seldom happens to him, though 

 often to the poor quail in this region of deep snows. 

 Sixty years ago quail were not uncommon here 

 where now a wild turkey would scarcely be a 

 stranger sight. Such crusts as these have been their 

 more relentless enemy than guns and snares or 

 beasts and birds of prey, and have exterminated 

 them. 



The partridge does not harbor under the snow 

 except in cold, dry weather, though he allows him- 

 self to be covered by snowfalls. One may often 

 see the mould of his plump body where he has 

 lain for hours in his snug bed of down, and rarely 

 — twice, or thrice in a lifetime, perhaps — one 

 may have the luck to be startled by his sudden 



