The road beyond Hubbard’s bridge has been closed by snow for two or three weeks; only the walls show that there has been a road there. Travellers take to the fields.
I see the track of a fox or dog across the meadow, made some time ago. Each track is now a pure white snowball, rising three inches above the surrounding surface, and this has formed a lee behind which a narrow drift has formed, extending a foot or two southeasterly.
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