SNOW STORIES 53 
still crusted with the earth of his chill home. Down 
under the leaves and the frozen ground he had heard 
the call, and struggled to the surface, expecting to 
find spring awaiting him. Two jumps, however, 
had landed him in a snowbank. It was a disillusion, 
and Mr. Toad winked his mild brown eyes piteous- 
ly. He struggled bravely to get out, but every jump 
plunged him deeper into the snow. His movements 
became feebler as the little warmth his cold blood 
contained oozed out. 
Just as he was settling despairingly back into the 
crystallized cold, I rescued him. He was too far gone 
even to move, for cold spells quick death to the 
reptile folk. Only his blinking beautiful eyes, like 
lignite flecked with gold, and the slow throbbing of 
his mottled breast, showed that life was still in him. 
He nestled close in my hand, willing to occupy it 
until warm weather. 
I back-tracked him from his faltering efforts, and 
where his first lusty jump showed on the thawing 
ground I found his hibernaculum. It was only a little 
hollow, scarcely three inches deep, under sodden 
leaves and wet earth, and cheerless enough, accord- 
ing to mammalian ideas. It was evidently home for 
Mr. Toad, and when I set him therein, he scrambled 
relievedly under some of the loose wet leaves which 
had fallen back into his nest. I piled a generous 
measure of dripping leaves and moist earth over his 
warted back. It may have been imagination, but I 
fancied that the last look I had from his bright eyes 
was one of gratitude. The Botanist scoffed at the 
