The Bay of the Band 
something of a measure for the flight of the birds. 
The majesty and the mystery of the distant buoyant 
wings were singularly impressive. 
I have seen the turkey-buzzard sailing the skies on 
the bitterest winter days. To-day, however, could 
hardly be called winter. Indeed, nothing yet had felt 
the pinch of the cold. There was no hunger yet in 
the swamp, though this new snow had scared the 
raccoons out, and their half-human tracks along the 
margin of the swamp stream showed that, if not hun- 
gry, they at least feared that they might be. 
For a coon hates snow. He will invariably sleep 
off the first light snowfalls, and even in the late 
winter he will not venture forth in fresh snow unless 
driven by hunger or some other dire need. Perhaps, 
like a cat or a hen, he dislikes the wetting of his feet. 
Or it may be that the soft snow makes bad hunting — 
for him. The truth is, I believe, that such a snow 
makes too good hunting for the dogs and the gunner. 
The new snow tells too clear a story. His home is no 
inaccessible den among the ledges ; only a hollow in 
some ancient oak or tupelo. Once within, he is safe 
from the dogs, but the long fierce fight for life taught 
him generations ago that the nest-tree is a fatal trap 
26 
