Ill 



SNOW STORIES 



THE sun went down in a spindrift of pale gold and 

 gray, which faded into a bank of lead-colored cloud. 

 The next morning the woods and fields were dumb 

 with snow. No blue jays squalled, nor white-skirted 

 juncos clicked; neither were there any nuthatches 

 running gruntingly up and down the tree-trunks. 

 There was not even the caw of a passing crow from 

 the cold sky. As I followed an unbroken wood-road, 

 it seemed as if all the wild-folk were gone. 



The snow told another story. On its smooth sur- 

 face were records of the lives that had throbbed and 

 passed and ebbed beneath the silent trees. Just 

 ahead of me the road crossed a circle where, a half- 

 century ago, the charcoal-burners had set the round 

 stamp of one of their pits. On the level snow there 

 was a curious trail of zigzag tracks. They were deep 

 and close-set, and made by some animal that walked 

 flat-footed. I recognized the trail of the unhasting 

 skunk. Other animals may jump and run and skurry 

 through life, but the motto of the skunk is, "Don't 

 hurry, others will." The tracks of the fore-paw, 

 when examined closely, showed long claw-marks 

 which were absent from the print of the hind feet. 

 Occasionally the trail changed into a series of groups 

 of four tracks arranged in a diagonal straight line, 



