The change had come almost gently; the mass of moisture-laden air had come drifting up from the south, and the snow had begun to fall almost as if by afterthought. But the gentleness was deception. Soon the snow would come driving down. Soon the south wind would blow. But not just now. Just now everything was silent. Just now everything was still. No strong wind came whistling down from the high ridges to stir the branches and rattle the briers. No squirrel chattered. No bird called. The only sound came from the snowflakes drifting down, invisible in the mist, tinkling as they fell like ten thousand tiny bells. It was just about sunup; just before or just after. There was not much light, but enough to see that more light would not have done any good; the air was full of fog and falling snow, and it was all too thick for any real vision. I could easily have been lost, for all the landmarks were shifted and changed by the grayness. But I was not lost; a hunter is never lost so long as there is a track to follow.
