tance--must have observed that the
rebounding drops, like those that are falling, form streaks, because
they, too, are arranged in vertical layers--or sheets--of greater and
lesser density--or maybe the term "frequency" would be more appropriate;
and these streaks travel as compared with the wind, and, as compared
with its direction, they travel against it. It is this that causes the
curious criss-cross pattern of falling and rebounding rain-streaks in
heavy showers. Quite likely there are more competent observers who might
analyze these phenomena better than I can do it; but if nobody else
does, maybe I shall one day make public a little volume containing
observations on our summer rains. But again I am digressing.

The snow, then, hits the surface of the older layers in waves, no matter
whether the snow is freshly falling or merely drifting; and it is these
waves that you notice most distinctly. Although they travel with the
wind when you compare their position with points on the ground--yet,
when compared with the rushing air above, it becomes clear that they
travel against it. The waves, I say, not the flakes. The single flake
never stops in its career, except as it may be retarded by friction
and other resistances. But the aggregation of the multitudes of flakes,
which varies constantly in its substance, creates the impression as if
the snow travelled very much more slowly than in reality it does. In
other words, every single flake, carried on by inertia, constantly
passes from one air wave to the next one, but the waves themselves
remain relatively stationary. They swing along in undulating,
comparatively slow-moving sheets which may simply be retarded behind the
speed of the wind, but more probably form an actual reaction, set up by
a positive force counteracting the wind, whatever its origin may be.

When at last I had fully satisfied my mind as to the somewhat
complicated mechanics of this thing, I settled back in my seat--against
a cushion of snow that had meanwhile piled in behind my spine. If I
remember right, I had by this time well passed the church. But for a
while longer I looked out through the triangular opening between the
door of the cutter and the curtain. I did not watch snowflakes or waves
any longer, but I matured an impression. At last it ripened into words.

Yes, the snow, as figured in the waves, CRAWLED over the ground. There
was in the image that engraved itself on my memory something cruel