THE SNOW-WALKERS 65 



opposite side of the field. In the stilhiess you may 

 sometimes hear a single stone rattle on the wall as 

 they hurry toward the woods. If the dog finds 

 nothing he comes back to his master in a short time, 

 and says in his dumb way, "No coon there." But 

 if he strikes a trail you presently hear a louder rat- 

 tling on the stone wall, and then a hurried bark as 

 he enters the woods, followed in a few minutes by 

 loud and repeated barking as he reaches the foot of 

 the tree in which the coon has taken refuge. Then 

 follows a pellmell rush of the cooning party up the 

 hill, into the woods, through the brush and the 

 darkness, falling over prostrate trees, pitching into 

 gullies and hollows, losing hats and tearing clothes, 

 till finally, guided by the baying of the faithful dog, 

 the tree is reached. The first thing now in order 

 is to kindle a fire, and, if its light reveals the coon, 

 to shoot him; if not, to fell the tree with an axe. 

 If this happens to be too great a sacrifice of timber 

 and of strength, to sit down at the foot of the tree 

 till morning. 



But with March our interest in these phases of 

 animal life, which winter has so emphasized and 

 brought out, begins to decline. Vague rumors are 

 afloat in the air of a great and coming change. We 

 are eager for Winter to be gone, since he, too, is 

 fugitive and cannot keep his place. Invisible hands 

 deface his icy statuary; his chisel has lost its cun- 

 ning. The drifts, so pure and exquisite, are now 

 earth-stained and weather-worn, — the flutes and 

 scallops, and fine, firm lines, all gone; and what 



