THE SNOW-WALKERS.
This morning--
We looked upon a world unknown,
On nothing we could call our own.
Around the glistening wonder bent
The blue walls of the firmament;
No cloud above, no earth below,
A universe of sky and snow.
The sun shines, and a rosy suffusion is over the landscape. All the
fences are buried deep, and the trees stand starkly outlined against
the sky. Millions of snow-crystals glint athwart the fields. Birds
swarm in the garden--the home birds more confiding and the wild birds
tame. Tits hang to the suet bags, and a general assembly flock to the
cornsheaf. A ring-ouzel flies wildly from the rowan-tree, and four or
five species of thrushes are among the berries of the shrubs.
So softly winnowed is the falling snow that it scarce bends the few
grasses and dead plants that now appear above its surface. The kindly
snow obliterates the torn and abraded scars of nature; but it not the
less effectually reproduces the prints of her children. To the light
the snow reveals the doings of the night. Does a mouse so much as
cross, she leaves her delicate tracery on the white coverlet. Away from
the homestead rabbits have crossed and recrossed the fields in a
perfect maze. That ill-defined "pad" tracks a hare to the turnips.
Pheasants and wood-pigeons have scratched for mast beneath the beeches,
and we find red blood-drops along the fence. These are tracked to a
colony of weasels in the old wall. Last night a piteous squeal might
have been heard from the half-buried fence, and the little tragedy
would be played out upon the snow. Five wild swans cleave the thin air
far up, and fly off with outstretched necks. The tiny brown wren bids
defiance to the weather; darting in and out of every hole and crevice,
usually reappearing with the cocoon of some insect in its bill. These
delicate footprints reproduce the long toes of the lark, and those are
the tracks of the meadow pipit. The hedge-berries are almost gone; and
here the redwing and fieldfare have run along the fence bottom in
search of fallen fruit. Those larger tracks by the sheep troughs show
that the hungry rooks have been scratching near, and the chatter of
magpies comes from the fir-tree tops. Scattered pine cones betoken a
flock of incessantly chattering crossbills; and once in the fir wood we
caught a glimpse of the scarlet appendages of the rare Bohemian
waxwing. The gaudily-coloured yellow-hammer shows well against the
snow, and bathes its orange plumage in the feathered rain. How our
British finches seem to enjoy the frost and snow! Certain it is that
now their stores of food become scant; but then they throw in their lot
with the sparrows of barn-door and rick-yard. The bright bachelor finch
stands out from his pure setting, and the daws look black against the
snow. "Tweet," "tweet," comes through the cold thin air, and is
startling in its stillness; and now we may hear as well as see the
flight of a flock of linnets and goldfinches. Here observe a tall,
nodding thistle-head, its once dark green leaves shrivelled up and
turned to grey, its purple flower-rays to russet brown. They contain
ripened seeds. A goldfinch hangs to the under surface, and a
rose-breasted linnet clings to the topmost spray. The two frail things
are not unlike in form, though the goldfinch is by far the handsomer
bird. His prettily-shaped beak is flesh-coloured, as are also his legs.
His head has patches of scarlet, white, and black, each well defined
and setting off the other. The breast and back are of varying tints of
warm russet brown, and the feathers of the wing are picked out with
orange. His tail is alternately elevated and depressed as he changes
his position; and the patches of golden yellow are well brought out as
he flutters from spray to spray. Thus do the linnet and the goldfinch
go through the winter, together ranging the fields, and feeding upon
the seeds they can pick up.
Along the meadow brook a stately heron has left its imprints; the
water-hen's track is marked through the reeds; and there upon the icy
margin are the blurred webs of wild ducks. A bright red squirrel runs
along the white wall. In its warm furs it shows sharply against the
fence. Naturalists say that the squirrel hibernates through the winter;
but this is hardly so. A bright day, even though cold and frosty,
brings him out to visit some summer store. The prints of the squirrel
are sharply cut, the tail at times just brushing the snow. The mountain
linnets have come down to the lowlands; and we flush a flock from an
ill-farmed field where weeds run rampant. When alarmed the birds wheel
aloft, uttering the while soft twitterings, then betake themselves to
the trees. The seeds of brook-lime, flax, and knapweed the twite seems
partial to, and this wild-weed field is to them a very paradise. Just
now, walking in the woods, the cry of the bullfinch is heard as perhaps
the most melancholy of all our birds, but its bright scarlet breast
compensates for its want of cheeriness. A flock of diminutive
gold-crests rush past us, and in the fir wood we hear but cannot see a
flock of siskins.
Higher up the valley, towards the hills, tracks of another kind begin
to appear. On the fells we come across a dead herdwick, trampled about
with innumerable feet. We examine these closely, and find that they are
only of two species--the raven and the buzzard. Further in the scrub we
track a pine-marten to its lair in the rocks. The dogs drive it from
its stronghold, and, being arboreal in its habits, it immediately makes
up the nearest pine trunk. Its rich brown fur and orange throat make it
one of the most lithely beautiful of British animals. A pair of stoats
or ermines, with their flecked coats just in the transition stage, have
their haunt in the same wood. From the snow we see that last night they
have threaded the aisles of the pines in search of food. This clear-cut
sharp track by the fence is that of a fox.
Another fascinating aspect of nature in winter are the woods. When
snow-covered there is a grandeur and majesty about them such as they
never wear at other times. The giant limbs of the trees stand starkly
outlined against the sky, and nought but sound silence possesses the
aisles of plumed pines. Except the faint trickle of the stream, it
would seem almost as though the pulse of nature had ceased to beat. Of
course, this only applies to the interior of the woods, and the
suggestion is emphasised by the thick soft carpetings of pine needles
where these have dropped for many tree-generations.
Once again we are enjoying the pleasure of wild shooting in winter, but
now in the open glades. Again there has been a slight fall of snow,
and, sure, morning was never more beautiful. The feathered rain is
crisp to the tread, and the warm sun converts the air to that of
summer. The sea is blue, the hills rose-tinted, and the snow-crystals
make the landscape gloriously, dazzlingly bright. A coating of snow
will always arrest the eye of the observant sportsman, more especially
if he have a _penchant_ for natural history. There are the tracks
and trails of birds and animals, and what zest is added to the search
in the possibility of finding a new one! Only those who follow the
tracks of the snow-walkers know really how rich is the land in all
animate nature. Be the stitching on the white coverlet never so faint
or so delicate, it is always rendered faithfully. In the snow we read
out the history of the wild creatures immediately about us, the
existence of which we never even suspected. In our home fields there
are two or three mice, as many shrews, and a couple of voles. These
latter leave their tracks in the hedge-bottoms, or along the stream
sides, and we see not only where they have burrowed, but what they have
eaten. The shrews and mice are on dryer ground, and their delicate feet
have pencilled the prettiest patterns upon the snow. The tracks of the
partridge are pretty, too, and from them we read what ceaseless runners
the birds are. A depression shows where they have roosted last night,
and then their tracks may be followed through the stubble and seed
fields. By the brook-side are the hair-like tracings of innumerable
small birds; and the water margins here record the fullest registering.
This may be owing to the soft brook banks and their aquatic life, when
the rest of the fields are icebound. Then many of the spawning fish are
still on the redds, and the prospect of these may be an additional
inducement to some of the fish-feeding creatures. Here, clutching a
tuft of couch-grass is a dead barn-owl, for which the intense cold has
proved too much--one enemy less to the shrews and field mice, whose
hasty tracks here and there show that more than once last night they
have had to beat a hasty retreat. Once during the day, as the ferrets
were turned into a burrow, some one pointed out a brace of ermines that
had doubtless been looking after the rabbits on their own account. They
were still in their brown summer fur, and made their way over the snow
and out of harm's way at a remarkably rapid rate. This little incident
reminds us of a brown owl which emerged from a rabbit-hole just as the
ermines did, and curiously enough these birds had a couple of eggs and
a young one even in December, with the ground snow-covered. The heavy
blurred tracks of grouse were at first difficult to determine, and the
key to them was only to be found in the birds themselves, as they rose
with a startling whirr. They had been driven from the higher to the
lower ground in search of food. One of the terriers disinterred a spiny
hedgehog from its warm, leafy retreat, and "Prickles" probably felt
much mystified to find himself in a world of dazzling whiteness.
There was one other track which it would be long and devious to
follow--one which had been abroad under the moon and stars, and from
its trail would seem to have known the ways and the haunts of both
furred and feathered game by heart--and that was the old poacher. The
snow is a great tell-tale, but it causes the poacher's eye to grow keen
and his step firm; and nothing but the gaol walls will prevent his
being a snow-walker. His life has been one long protest against the
game laws; and whatever he is, or is not, he believes them to be
unjust.