SNOW STORIES 53 



still crusted with the earth of his chill home. Down 

 under the leaves and the frozen ground he had heard 

 the call, and struggled to the surface, expecting to 

 find spring awaiting him. Two jumps, however, 

 had landed him in a snowbank. It was a disillusion, 

 and Mr. Toad winked his mild brown eyes piteous- 

 ly. He struggled bravely to get out, but every jump 

 plunged him deeper into the snow. His movements 

 became feebler as the little warmth his cold blood 

 contained oozed out. 



Just as he was settling despairingly back into the 

 crystallized cold, I rescued him. He was too far gone 

 even to move, for cold spells quick death to the 

 reptile folk. Only his blinking beautiful eyes, like 

 lignite flecked with gold, and the slow throbbing of 

 his mottled breast, showed that life was still in him. 

 He nestled close in my hand, willing to occupy it 

 until warm weather. 



I back-tracked him from his faltering efforts, and 

 where his first lusty jump showed on the thawing 

 ground I found his hibernaculum. It was only a little 

 hollow, scarcely three inches deep, under sodden 

 leaves and wet earth, and cheerless enough, accord- 

 ing to mammalian ideas. It was evidently home for 

 Mr. Toad, and when I set him therein, he scrambled 

 relievedly under some of the loose wet leaves which 

 had fallen back into his nest. I piled a generous 

 measure of dripping leaves and moist earth over his 

 warted back. It may have been imagination, but I 

 fancied that the last look I had from his bright eyes 

 was one of gratitude. The Botanist scoffed at the 



