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and the sleighbells jingle no more, the mountain pas- 

 tures are bare, the fields and gardens are wet, brown 

 earth, and suddenly a song sparrow sings in the hedge. 

 But we make one more trip into the deep woods, to say 

 farewell to the Winter, into the high forests on the 

 mountains this time, for it is there the snow longest 

 abides. We tramp at first along sloppy, muddy roads, 

 and then through soggy fields, past brooks which are 

 full to overflowing. There are white drifts along the 

 pasture walls, however, and as we draw near the 

 mountain side we can see the white carpet through the 

 trees, which explains why the mountains still look gray 

 though the rest of the world is brown. As we enter 

 the woods, our boots sink almost knee-high into the soft 

 mass, which is too heavy for snowshoes. As we climb, 

 it grows deeper, eighteen inches of it some years in late 

 March on the northern side of the hills. The mountain 

 wall grows steeper, the climbing harder, till at last the 

 soft, treacherous snow affords no footing at all, and we 

 can climb no more. We find an exposed rock which the 

 sun has melted clear, and sit there to rest, surrounded 

 by green arbutus plants and the fresh tendrils of Herb 

 Robert. We are hot and coatless, yet soaked with snow. 

 The melting is gradual up here in the woods, and so long 

 as the woods remain they are our protection from spring 

 floods, and our guarantee of a summer water supply. 



The homeward trip is a matter of sliding, perhaps of 

 frequent tumbles, of panting breath and laughter. The 



