THE HEART OF WINTER 277 



cottontail is hiding in some thick snow-covered 

 scrub, or perhaps in a hole beneath an uprooted 

 tree. Even the blood-thirsty mink cares not to 

 venture forth unless sorely pressed by hunger. 

 The ruffed grouse seeks the protection of a friendly 

 hemlock tree, or sits snug under a thick patch of 

 laurel. In the swamp thicket the quails, huddled 

 close together for mutual protection, are trying to 

 brave the storm, hoping no crust will form to keep 

 them prisoners and let them starve slowly and 

 miserably. With evening, the wind, tired out by 

 its long day's work, quiets down and the snow no 

 longer falls. Gradually the clouds disappear, and in 

 their place we see the clear dark blue of the evening 

 sky, dotted over with cold white stars. Then comes 

 the quiet of the winter night, broken only, so far 

 as we know, by the occasional hooting or crying 

 of an owl, or the distant barking of a fox. But, 

 though quiet, the woods are no longer dead, for it 

 is during these still nights, unseen by man, that 

 the tragedies of the woods occur. The morning 

 dawns clear, cold and wonderfully still, a glorious 

 morning for a tramp. If the ground is covered to 

 a sufficient depth we tie on our snow-shoes, and 

 enjoy the crunching sound, as we tread down the 

 soft, dry snow. All the land is smiling, as though 

 rejoicing that the storm has passed. The jewel- 

 like snow-crystals sparkle and dance in the cold 

 white sunlight as the sun rises higher in tha 

 heavens, the colour of the sky increases until it 

 becomes of a deep and rich blue, and no cloud 

 breaks the great expanse. In the distance the 

 mountains loom up with wonderful clearness. The 



