CHRISTMAS IN THE WOODS 59 



struck viciously beside it. Now it was back where it 

 first appeared, nor did it flinch for the next ball, or 

 the next. 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 happily 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 just then 

 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. The sight of him took 

 all hatred out of me. As he strode off with his stained 

 bag I felt kindlier toward the weasel there were 

 worse in the woods than he. He must kill to live, 

 and if he gloated over the kill, why, what fault of 

 his? But the other, the one with the blood-stained 

 game-bag, he killed for the love of killing. I was 

 glad he had gone. 



The crows were winging over toward their great 

 roost in the pines when I turned toward the town. 

 They, too, had had good picking along the creek 

 flats and the ditches of the meadows. Their powerful 

 wing-beats and constant play up in the air told of 

 full crops and no fear for the night, already softly 

 gray across the silent fields. 



