FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW 



By JOHN BOYD 



HEN the fall- 

 ing snow drops 

 in light airy 

 flakes on the 

 pines an d 

 spruces, a n d 

 drapes with its 

 clustering trac- 

 ery the oaks and maples — when the still 

 air seems to fix everything out of doors 

 in a solid mass of crystal, then we can. 

 hie to the woods, knowing that there it is 

 always -comfortable. In the shelter of 

 the trees the frost seems to lose its 

 fierceness, and should a -spiteful wind 

 sweep over the naked hills and fields, 

 and rage amongst the tree tops, we find 

 in the depths of the forest that the blast 

 is only a murmur to our ears, and a 

 solace which enhances the charm about 

 us. 



To the lover of nature, the woods in 

 winter present unlimited opportunities 

 for observing the habits of the creatures 

 of the field, the forest, and even some 

 of our avian friends. 



Each morning we can view the ex- 

 cursions and feeding rambles of the past 

 night, noting here and there some catas- 

 trophe, for in Nature it is always the 

 survival of the fittest. 



The squirrel, field mouse, cottontail 

 rabbit, fox, horned lark, robin, etc., and 

 even the house dog and cat, leave an 

 unmistakable record of their travels, 

 which if read correctly is at once an 

 insight into the inner promptings of 

 these creatures when unwatched by hu- 

 man eyes. 



Before we start dealing with tracks in 

 detail, we wish to suggest to the stu- 

 dent who would read these signs aright, 

 that the feet of all animals should be 

 closely examined, either in life or in 

 specimen, then by visits to the Zoos or 

 Museums, he can note their customary 



gait while walking and running. Much 

 preliminary study should be done in this 

 way, and it will certainly be time well 

 spent. It will prove an equipment for 

 the observer which will qualify him 

 for his more mature investigation into 

 the habits of the wild and free animals 

 themselves, for only occasionally can 

 one actually see the track-makers on 

 their daily rounds, and it were far bet- 

 ter that we pass over many of the signs 

 on the snow, than that one of them 

 should be erroneously identified. 



The two commonest tracks are that 

 of the field mouse and the cottontail 

 rabbit. The little row of twin foot- 

 prints of the field mouse are often taken 

 by a novice for some sort of a bird's. 

 I suppose because its tracks begin at a 

 place where it is unlikely any animal 

 could emerge unless it dropped from 

 the skies, and, when it has had its out- 

 ing, disappears in an equally mysteri- 

 ous way. 



They have, however, a starting point, 

 and it is usually near a tuft of grass or 

 bush, where a small hole permits our 

 dainty traveler to crawl out and write 

 his name on the white and even page 

 of winter. Follow him along, in and 

 out amongst the trees, curving and 

 twisting, tunneling and climbing like 

 a miniature railroad, and you will find 

 another small hole where he entered to 

 hide himself from the gaze of the upper 

 world. These little fellows are invete- 

 rate ramblers, and it is a very severe 

 storm which will keep them under cover 

 more than a day at a time. Their tracks 

 in the hard snow are clear and distinct, 

 but when it is soft and deep their little 

 legs and tail leave a trail which re- 

 sembles more than anything else a 

 chain with links joined together. 



Beneath these tracks lies hidden a 

 whole realm of activity, which only the 



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