and he seems far larger
and taller than his bulk and length when put to the yardstick
would show. I always think his tracks in the snow show something
of the same characteristics, as if he unwittingly wrote his
character into his signature, as most of us do.

All in all it is a fine sport, this hunting of the wild creatures
of the wood without harming them. To bag them in one's memory or
one's notebook is to accomplish that feat long desired of mankind,
to keep one's cake and eat it too, while he who shoots kills his
joy in the acquiring of it.

At dusk of the still winter day the cold of interstellar space
drops down among the treetops and seems to reflect back toward
one's marrow from the snow beneath. Then I like to preface the
homeward trip by one more campfire. A grove of young white pines
provides the best material for a quick fire. The upper boughs of
such trees so shade the lower ones that they die, but remain dry
and brittle on the trees, full of pitch, making the finest
kindling material in the woods. It takes but a strong pull to
break such limbs off near the trunk and they may be broken into
stove length over the knee or in the hands. Even in a rain the
tiny twigs of these limbs will light at the touch of a match and
no snow can be so deep in the winter woods but they are
immediately available. They make a smokeless fire that gives off a
fine aroma and much heat. In its ruddy glow is home, its
flickering flames weaving an ever-changing tapestry on the
gathering dusk, the black pines standing like beneficient genii
watching over the altar flame in the snow.

Many a woodland thing will stand at gaze just beyond the circle of
this campfire whose flare may shine back from the eyes of a
wandering deer. More likely it will shine from the eyes of the
only night bird of the winter woods, an owl. Perhaps the last
greeting from the woods which the wayfarer will get as he leaves
the diminishing red glow of the falling embers behind him and
fares on under the keen, cold twinkle of the stars will be the
questioning "who-who-whoo?" of the one of the big species of these
birds, a barred owl or a great horned owl. More likely in our
neighborhood it will be the gentle, quavering call of the little
screech owl, a voice of friendliness out of the silence, dear to
every true lover of the woods. With this voice and perhaps a gleam
of the friendly eyes in the purple dusk the chronicle of the day's
sport may well end.