A HARE IN THE SNOW 



task, tidied up the cottage, destroyed every trace of the 

 hare, and then opened his door and looked out. The 

 snow was befriending them, that was certain. The air 

 was thick with it, and the mighty flakes, torn and beaten 

 by the fierce hurricane of wind, were massing a fresh 

 covering upon the earth a foot in depth. They watched 

 and waited all that morning and afternoon, whelmed in 

 a fear so horrible that it froze their tongues and turned 

 them into figures of stone. Every blast of the tempest, 

 every rattle of the door, sent a sickening pang of dread 

 to their hearts. Yet, save one, none came near them, 

 and the long, long afternoon at last deepened into 

 night. Once, indeed, a sharp knock came at the door, 

 a head was thrust inside, and a blue-faced forester 

 inquired, ''Hath Sir Edmund been seen this way 

 to-day?" Goodwin answered, "Nay," and the man 

 passed hastily on. It was a fearsome moment, but 

 nothing came of it. 



That evening Thomas Goodwin, fastening a long 

 coil of rope about his waist, and carrying on his back 

 a ghastly burden, staggered through the forest, and 

 after incredible exertion reached a huge oak tree, deep 

 in the woods, more than a mile away. This oak he had 

 known since boyhood, when, to his vast delight, he had 

 found at the crown of the massive bole a great cavernous 

 hollow. In this hollow — down which he had cut steps 

 to the very base of the tree — when the spreading 

 summer leaves gave him secure shelter, he had loved 

 to hide childish treasures and to imagine for himself 

 a woodland home. None knew of his secret. Hither, 

 in the despair of his manhood, his staggering limbs 

 carried him that winter's night. He reached the tree, 

 fastened a running noose under the armpits of the now 

 stiff corpse, and then, with the free end of his stout rope 

 in his grip, climbed from branch to branch, until he had 



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