In the Christmas Woods. 



than the proverbial drowned rat ; but it does not 

 make mud-puddles ; it does not bring the same dirt 

 and discomfort in its wake that it does where man 

 makes his abode. The soft, fragrant, brown mold 

 receives it gladly ; the mosses soak it up ; the trees 

 catch it in their outstretched hands and turn it 

 gently down upon their own thirsty roots ; the 

 broad-leaved plants lie down before it and arise, 

 refreshed, when it has passed. It comes, the rain 

 from heaven, as cleanser and life-giver, and even I, 

 soaked by its downpour, bewildered by the rush 

 and sweep of wind and storm, touched by a little 

 mortal fear at the strangeness of it all, am the better 

 for such a wetting. Let but a single sunbeam sift 

 through the branches and the woods will smile like 

 a happy child after its bath. 



Scrambling up the side of a moss-grown rock 

 I come face to face, on the top, with a huge snail. 

 To my great surprise I get a glimpse of a queer, 

 dog-like visage, with snub nose and bright eyes ; 

 then the creature pulls its soft, shelly hood down 

 over its head and I can see only its round, resolute- 

 looking shoulders. I poke it in the back, but it 

 only hunches itself together and rolls over; I can- 

 not get another peep at its head. That passing 

 glimpse of the sturdy, bull-dog face, however, helps 

 me understand the persistence with which, once 

 they are started, these creatures travel forward. 

 One, crossing my dooryard not long ago, found his 

 way barred by the house. Nothing daunted, he 

 mounted the steps, traversed the platform and 



II 



