WILD LIFE IN HARD WEATHER 205 



At night, when the unclouded moon shines from 

 the indigo sky with a strange, weird brightness 

 upon the white coverlet of the sleeping world, 

 the fox steals through the shadows of the woods 

 and enters the fowls' house at the farm. Pre- 

 sently, awakened by the cackling of the poultry 

 and the barking of the dogs, the farmer appears 

 at his window. A shot rings out into the silence. 

 Stung by a stray pellet from the old muzzle- 

 loader, Reynard drops his prey and, followed by 

 the loud-tongued dogs, disappears within the 

 woods. 



Unsoiled, save by the firm footprint of some 

 lone labourer on his cheerless way to a neigh- 

 bouring farmstead, the snow covers the village 

 street completely. Regularly each night the 

 flakes are wafted by the wind against the 

 southern side of walls and hedgerows, and there 

 heaped in drifts which, lit by the grey light of 

 early morning, glisten with a soft, pearly splen- 

 dour like that of the hovering mist above the 

 curtained river-fall in the gorge. Fantastic 

 traceries, as of crystal pine trees, or like festoons 

 of flowers hung upon columns and archways, 

 are outlined on the window panes. When the 

 sun tops the hill, these become merely dainty 

 incrustations, having the appearance of obscure 

 cathedral glass, with fragile borderings which 

 slowly melt into radiating spangles, and increase 



