WINTER MARVELS 



ET us suppose that a 

 heavy snow has fallen and 

 that we have been a-birding 

 in vain. For once it seems as if all 

 the birds had gone the way of the 

 butterflies. But we are not true bird- 

 lovers unless we can substitute nature 

 for bird whenever the occasion de- 

 mands; specialisation is only for the 

 ultra-scientist. 



There is more to be learned in a 

 snowy field than volumes could tell. 

 There is the tangle of footprints to 

 unravel, the history of the pastimes 

 and foragings and tragedies of the 

 past night writ large and unmistakable. Though the sun 

 now shines brightly, we can well imagine the cold dark- 

 ness of six hours ago; we can reconstruct the whole scene 

 from those tiny tracks, showing frantic leaps, the indenta- 

 tion of two wing-tips, a speck of blood. But let us take 



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