THE HEART OF WINTER 279 



seed-bearing heads far above the snow, birds 

 driven by hunger have loosened the silky seed, and 

 it waits but for the wind to carry it off to other 

 marshes, where it will spring up next year, to 

 the delight of those who fortunately are never too 

 old to enjoy gathering the rich brown velvet cat- 

 kins. In the woods all is cold and silent. The 

 snow, driven by the gale, has left the trees bare 

 and desolate. It is the very picture of winter 

 in all its bleakness. Were it not for the dormant 

 buds of the azalea and some few trees that 

 show a promise of life, we might easily believe 

 winter to be a season of death. The only relief to 

 the sombre greys of the tree trunks is the green of 

 the laurel, the large drooping leaves of the rhodo- 

 dendron, and the welcome coniferous trees. Such 

 is winter as we usually see it. 



We are anxious to know what happened during 

 the night, and so we make our way to the woods 

 to see the stories of life and death which have been 

 recorded on the spotless ground. The first thing 

 we see is the lace-like track of a mouse ; whether 

 it is a meadow or a white-footed mouse we do not 

 know. The tracks show where the little animal 

 has run along on the surface for a short distance, 

 then burrowed into it. By carefully cutting away 

 the snow his burrow can easily be followed. It 

 runs from root to root, and shows distinctly that 

 the owner was in search of food. During the 

 winter months the mice are well protected. They 

 travel beneath the surface of the snow, secure from 

 the eyes of their many enemies ; occasionally one, 

 more foolish than his companions, stays too long on 



