ti^t ;Sa^ of tS)t &Cinb 



I packed a ball of snow round and hard, slipped 

 forward upon my knees, and hurled it. ** Spat ! " it 

 struck the end of a stick within an inch of the ugly 

 head, filling the crevice with snow. Instantly the 

 head appeared at another crack, and another ball 

 struck viciously beside it. Now it was back where it 

 first appeared, and did not flinch for the next, nor 

 the next ball. The third went true, striking with a 

 *'chug" and packing the crack. But the black, hating 

 eyes were still watching me a foot lower down. 



It is not all peace and good-will in the Christmas 

 woods. But there is more of peace and good-will 

 than of any other spirit. The weasels are few. More 

 friendly and timid eyes were watching me than bold 

 and murderous. It was foolish to want to kill — even 

 the weasel. For one's woods are what one makes 

 them, and so I let the man with the gun, who 

 chanced along, think that I had turned boy again, 

 and was snowballing the woodpile, just for the fun 

 of trying to hit the end of the biggest stick. 



I was glad he had come. As he strode off with 

 his stained bag I felt kindlier toward the weasel. 

 There were worse in the woods than he, — worse, 

 because all of their killing was pastime. The weasel 



32 



