10 WINTER 



knew just all that the tiny snow-prints of a wood 

 mouse mean, or understood just what, " root and all, 

 and all in all," the humblest flower is. 



The pop-corn cobs, however, we did understand; 

 they told a plain story ; and, falling in with a gray 

 squirrel's track not far from the red oak, we went on, 

 our burdenless game-bag heavier, our hearts lighter 

 that we, by the sweat of our brows, had contributed 

 a few ears of corn to the comfort of this snowy 

 winter world. 



The squirrel's track wound up and down the hill- 

 side, wove in and out and round and round, hitting 

 every possible tree, as if the only road for a squirrel 

 was one that looped and doubled, and tied up every 

 stump, and zigzagged into every tree trunk in the 

 woods. 



But all this maze was no ordinary journey. He had 

 not run this coil of a road for breakfast, because a 

 squirrel, when he travels, say for distant nuts, goes 

 as directly as you go to your school or office ; only 

 he goes not by streets, but by trees, never crossing 

 more of the open in a single rush than the space be- 

 tween him and the nearest tree that will take him 

 on his way. 



What interested us here in the woods was the fact 

 that a second series of tracks, just like the first, ex- 

 cept that they were only about half as large, dogged 

 the larger tracks persistently, leaping tree for tree, 

 and landing track for track with astonishing accu- 



