The pasture land crossed, I came to another fence which I climbed, of course. Here was a brushy swampy tract the ground completely covered with white watery snow. The place was shut in on the east of a row of willows that lined the edge of the Old Beaver Stream; on the south by the dense underbrush; on the west the creek barred a passage. For a person who has a extraordinary opinion of his importance, let him stand in the center of a field of ice on a bright sunshiny day; nothing makes a person feel so smal1 and insignificant, more than the glare of the snow. As this feeling I have discovered is usual only just after noontime I suddenly bethought myself that it was getting late. But to get home quickly, I had never been in such an inconvenient place. Apparently my way was barred on every side. My only hope was that I could effect a crossing at the old Beaver stream.  Thither I now turned.
     I found the creek icebound - a wet soggy blue ice that was gradually sinking in the middle. A trial at the edge proved that I could not cross on the ice in safety and for a moment I stood in indecision. Further down the new Beaver bed I remembered last fall of having crossed