ds and grass are seeding;
They know the lure of distant stacks
Where houseless herds are feeding.

JOHN BURROUGHS.

WINTER MARVELS

Let us suppose that a heavy snow has fallen and that we have been
a-birding in vain. For once it seems as if all the birds had gone the way
of the butterflies. But we are not true bird-lovers unless we can
substitute nature for bird whenever the occasion demands; specialisation
is only for the ultra-scientist.

There is more to be learned in a snowy field than volumes could tell.
There is the tangle of footprints to unravel, the history of the pastimes
and foragings and tragedies of the past night writ large and unmistakable.
Though the sun now shines brightly, we can well imagine the cold darkness
of six hours ago; we can reconstruct the whole scene from those tiny
tracks, showing frantic leaps, the indentation of two wing-tips,--a speck
of blood. But let us take a bird's-eye view of things, from a bird's-head
height; that is, lie flat upon a board or upon the clean, dry crystals and
see what wonders we have passed by all our lives.

Take twenty square feet of snow with a streamlet through the centre, and
we have an epitome of geological processes and conditions. With chin upon
mittens and mittens upon the crust, the eye opens upon a new world. The
half-covered rivulet becomes a monster glacier-fed stream, rushing down
through grand canyons and caves, hung with icy stalactites. Bit by bit the
walls are undermined and massive icebergs become detached and are whirled
away. As for moraines, we have them in plenty; only the windrows of
thousands upon thousands of tiny seeds of which they are composed, are not
permanent, but change their form and position with every strong gust of
wind. And with every gust too their numbers increase, the harvest of the
weeds being garnered here, upon barren ground. No wonder the stream will
be hidden from view next summer, when the myriad seeds sprout and begin to
fight upward for light and air.

If we cannot hope for polar bears to complete our Arctic scene, we may
thrill at the sight of a sinuous weasel, winding his way among the weeds;
and if we look in vain for swans, we at least may rejoice in a whirling,
white flock of snow buntings.

A few flakes fall gently upon our sleeve and another world opens before
us. A small hand-lens will be of service, although sharp eyes m