ANTOINE GARDAPEE. 229 



"Lo! sifted through the winds that blow, 

 Down comes the soft and silent snow, 

 White petals from the flowers that grow 



In the cold atmosphere. 

 These starry blossoms, pure and white, 

 Soft falling, falling, through the night, 



Have draped the woods and mere." 



The night was grand for sleeping, for it is never very 

 cold when the snow comes in big flakes, and the morn 

 was also grand. The snow had ceased falling, and the 

 air was bright and clear. The same silence brooded 

 over the woods, and was only emphasized by the tapping 

 of a woodpecker or the hoarse croak of a raven. I would 

 cross the divide and run the line down the other stream 

 after all, for it only meant a few more miles, and then 

 the week's work was done. It was in heavy timber all 

 the way; my old trail was hidden, but I knew the bear- 

 ings, and had only to keep the sun on my right until I 

 struck the stream, and then follow it eastward. After 

 breakfast I started. The sun was bright and dazzling 

 too much so for comfort. The traps were under twenty 

 inches of snow, and I dug most of them out with a snow- 

 shoe and got a few skins and set things in shape as well 

 as possible. When I stopped for a noon lunch my eyes 

 were so inflamed that they were painful. My soft cap 

 was pulled down in front, and I went on in the bright 

 sunshine and the drip of the trees, using one eye at a 

 time, until I could no longer see. I could not be more 

 than two miles from home, but could not avoid logs or 

 choose my steps, and I was in despair. I shot off my 

 rifle and yelled. Surely Antoine should hear a shot that 

 distance in such clear weather. I shot again and again, 

 perhaps a dozen times, and then I heard an answering 

 shot down the valley. My eyes were streaming, and I 



