bristling with the hoarfrost - it was a wonderful white scene! Before us, the big hill on the other side of the “Little Beaver” Creek, loomed large and dark, shutting out the sunlight from the frosty valley in which we were; to the south the sunbeams were we streaming thru the misty, frosty woods.  Somewhere a Peter-bird called called, a song-sparrow sang its song closely and from a tall tree a strange blackbird gave a cry, with which I was unfamiliar.
     Making our way thru the white underbrush we came to the bank of the “Little Beaver” - a bank which was covered with muddy leaves and grass, frozen solid. The dark waters flowed silently past; on its surface patches of thin ice floated by.
     “How quiet it is!” remarked Bill.
     It was quiet indeed. Here the sun had not yet penetrated and the very cold and frost seemed to increase the silence; only the faint murmur of the stream could be heard and now a then, down the stream, ice could be heard breaking, as it rushed over some rapids; on the other side was the dark, silent forest, from which came sepulchral rapping of a woodpecker.
     We pushed our way thru the willows and iron-wood