WILDWOOD WAYS 



scurrying earthward as if in a great 

 hurry, to those of the distance, which 

 float leisurely down. Look again up the 

 wind toward the gray of the hard-wood 

 forest and you shall find the falling hosts 

 almost as gray as the wood which they 

 half blot out. But if you would see black 

 snow, you have but to lift your eyes to 

 the leaden gray sky out of which, as you 

 see them from below, flakes float in black 

 blots that erase themselves only when they 

 lie at your feet. In open wells in the 

 deep wood you can see this still more defi- 

 nitely as you look up, a black snow fall- 

 ing all about you, to be changed to spot- 

 less white by some miracle of contact 

 with the earth. 



In the deep woods, too, you hear the 



cry of the snow, not the song of the trees 



in the joy of its coming, but the voices 



of the flakes themselves, their little shrill 



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