The Lay of the Band 
I packed a ball of snow round and hard, slipped 
forward upon my knees, and hurled it. “Spat!” it 
struck the end of a stick within an inch of the ugly 
head, filling the crevice with snow. Instantly the 
head appeared at another crack, and another ball 
struck viciously beside it. Now it was back where it 
first appeared, and did not flinch for the next, nor 
the next ball. 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 there is more of peace and good-will 
than of any other spirit. 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 
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. As he strode off with 
his stained bag I felt kindlier toward the weasel. 
There were worse in the woods than he, — worse, 
because all of their killing was pastime. The weasel 
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