ok, where he once caught frogs; through the
thicket, where the grouse were hatched; past the bullbrier tangle, where
the covey of quail once rested nightly; into the farmyard, where the
dog is loose and the chickens are safe under lock and key, instead of
roosting in trees; across the highway, and through the swamp, and into
the big bare empty woods; till in the sad gray morning light he digs
under the wild apple tree and sits down on the snow to eat a frozen
apple, lest his stomach cry too loudly while he sleeps the day away and
tries to forget that he is hungry.

Everywhere it is the same story: hard times and poor hunting. Even the
chickadees are hard pressed to keep up appearances and have their sweet
love note ready at the first smell of spring in the air.

This was the lesson that the great woods whispered sadly when a few idle
March days found me gliding on snowshoes over the old familiar ground.
Wild geese had honked an invitation from the South Shore; but one can
never study a wild goose; the only satisfaction is to see him swing in
on broad wings over the decoys--one glorious moment ere the gun speaks
and the dog jumps and everything is spoiled. So I left gun and rifle
behind, and went off to the woods of happy memories to see how my deer
were faring.

The wonder of the snow was gone; there was left only its cold bitterness
and a vague sense that it ought no longer to cumber the ground, but
would better go away as soon as possible and spare the wood folk any
more suffering. The litter of a score of storms covered its soiled rough
surface; every shred of bark had left its dark stain where the decaying
sap had melted and spread in the midday sun. The hard crust, which made
such excellent running for my snowshoes, seemed bitterly cruel when I
thought of the starving wild things and of the abundance of food on the
brown earth, just four feet below their hungry bills and noses.

The winter bad been unusually severe. Reports had come to me from the
North Woods of deep snows, and of deer dying of starvation and cold in
their yards. I confess that I was anxious as I hurried along. Now that
the hunt was over and the deer had won, they belonged to me more than
ever more even than if the stuffed head of the buck looked down on
my hall, instead of resting proudly over his own strong shoulders. My
snowshoes clicked a rapid march through the sad gray woods, while the
March wind thrummed an accompaniment high up among the