CHAPTER IV. 

 BELOW ZERO. 



SUDDEN changes are common to this climate. Immedi- 

 ately following our open winter weather comes a fall of 

 temperature below zero, with just snow enough on a smooth- 

 worn, hard-frozen road to make the sleighs slip easily. 

 The snow crunches under foot, and, what is rather uncom- 

 mon here, the trees and buildings resound with a strange 

 snapping, almost equal to the report of a pistol, as if the 

 nails in the buildings were springing out and the trunks of 

 the trees were bursting asunder — sounds very mysterious to 

 me in my childhood, but now understood to be caused by 

 an expansion, on the freezing of water contained in the 

 crevices of the trees or in the little exposed cavities of 

 buildings. 



THE SNOWY OWL. 



There is something peculiarly exhilarating in this kind of 

 weather. Everybody moves as if in a hurry; and, notwith- 

 standing the cold, one discovers a strong inclination to be 

 out. I am once more on my way to the favorite woods 

 beyond the peach orchard, gun in hand. As I move briskly 

 along that part of the orchard bordering on the forest, I put 

 up a large bird, almost as white as the snow itself. The 

 spread of its wings and tail is immense, and its flight is so 

 noiseless and dignified that one might almost think it some 

 living spiritual impersonation of winter. I take aim, and 



