The Record of the Snow 



devoured the edible part on the spot, scatter- 

 ing the coffee-colored chips about him as 

 he eats. Chipmunks, apparently, do not ven- 

 ture forth in the winter, unless some unusu- 

 ally warm and springlike day rouses them 

 from their nap and calls them forth for a 

 bit of lunch to tide them over until April, 

 but the red squirrel is abroad at all seasons 

 and in all weathers. I have seem him break- 

 fasting in the hemlocks, when the thermom- 

 eter registered ten degrees below zero, and 

 often in a driving snowstorm his welcom- 

 ing, cheery chatter would startle me as I 

 plunged through some evergreen clump, 

 head down against the storm, on my home- 

 ward way. 



For a greater part of the winter the short- 

 legged skunk continues his diligent, preda- 

 tory wading through the snow. You will 

 find plenty of his dotlike tracks in these 

 suburban woods. He is a mighty hunter, 

 and a mightily persevering one, despite his 

 dumpy, Dutch build and abbreviated legs. 

 In the snow his trail looks like a succession 

 of black-spotted dice cubes, laid side by side, 

 so short and positive and ploddingly repe- 

 titious are his steps. It seems ridiculous 



