h failing for the first time, and his
little, long-tended flock ready to give in and have the tragedy over,
knew just what he was doing in mincing along the cliff's edge with his
heedless enemy close behind. What did he think and feel, looking back
from his hiding, and what did his loud whistle mean? But that is always
the despair of studying the wild things. When your problem is almost
solved, night comes and the trail ends.

When I could walk again easily vacation was over, the law was on, and
the deer were safe.

SNOW BOUND

March is a weary month for the wood folk. One who follows them then has
it borne in upon him continually that life is a struggle,--a keen, hard,
hunger-driven struggle to find enough to keep a-going and sleep warm
till the tardy sun comes north again with his rich living. The fall
abundance of stored food has all been eaten, except in out-of-the-way
corners that one stumbles upon in a long day's wandering; the game also
is wary and hard to find from being constantly hunted by eager enemies.

It is then that the sparrow falleth. You find him on the snow, a
wind-blown feather guiding your eye to the open where he fell in
mid-flight; or under the tree, which shows that he lost his grip in the
night. His empty crop tells the whole pitiful story, and why you find
him there cold and dead, his toes curled up and his body feather-light.
You would find more but for the fact that hunger-pointed eyes are
keener than yours and earlier abroad, and that crow and jay and mink
and wildcat have greater interest than you in finding where the sparrow
fell.

It is then, also, that the owl, who hunts the sparrow o' nights, grows
so light from scant feeding that he cannot fly against the wind. If he
would go back to his starting point while the March winds are out,
he must needs come down close to the ground and yewyaw towards
his objective, making leeway like an old boat without ballast or
centerboard.

The grouse have taken to bud-eating from necessity--birch buds mostly,
with occasional trips to the orchards for variety. They live much now
in the trees, which they dislike; but with a score of hungry enemies
prowling for them day and night, what can a poor grouse do?

When a belated snow falls, you follow their particular enemy, the fox,
where he wanders, wanders, wander's on his night's hunting. Across the
meadow, to dine on the remembrance of field mice--alas! safe now under
the crust; along the bro