swamp, though this new snow had scared the raccoons out, and their
half-human tracks along the margin of the swamp stream showed that, if
not hungry, they at least feared that they might be.

For a coon hates snow. He will invariably sleep off the first light
snowfalls, and even in the late winter he will not venture forth in
fresh snow unless driven by hunger or some other dire need. Perhaps,
like a cat or a hen, he dislikes the wetting of his feet. Or it may be
that the soft snow makes bad hunting--for him. The truth is, T believe,
that such a snow makes too good hunting for the dogs and the gunner. The
new snow tells too clear a story. His home is no inaccessible den among
the ledges; only a hollow in some ancient oak or tupelo. Once within, he
is safe from the dogs; but the long fierce fight for life taught him
generations ago that the nest-tree is a fatal trap when behind the dogs
come the axe and the gun. So he has grown wary and enduring. He waits
until the snow grows crusty, when, without sign, and almost without
scent, he can slip forth among the long shadows and prowl to the edge of
dawn.

Skirting the stream out toward the higher back woods, I chanced to spy a
bunch of snow in one of the great sour gums, that I thought was an old
nest. A second look showed me tiny green leaves, then white berries,
then mistletoe.

It was not a surprise, for I had found it here before,--a long, long
time before. It was back in my school-boy days, back beyond those twenty
years, that I first stood here under the mistletoe and had my first
romance. There was no chandelier, no pretty girl, in that romance,--only
a boy, the mistletoe, the giant trees, and the somber, silent swamp.
Then there was his discovery, the thrill of deep delight, and the wonder