It was that fleeting sight of the telephone posts over
again, though on a slightly smaller scale; but this time
it was in front. Slowly I started to whistle and then
looked around. I remembered now. There was a newly cut-out
road running north past the school which lay embedded in
the bush. It had offered a lane to the wind; and the
wind, going there, in cramped space, at a doubly furious
stride, had picked up and carried along all the loose
snow from the grassy glades in its path. The road ended
abruptly just north of the drift, where the east-west
grade sprang up. When the wind had reached this end of
the lane, where the bush ran at right angles to its
direction, it had found itself in something like a blind
alley, and, sweeping upward, to clear the obstacle, it
had dropped every bit of its load into the shelter of
the brush, gradually, in the course of three long days,
building up a ridge that buried underbrush and trees. I
might have known it, of course. I knew enough about snow;
all the conditions for an exceptionally large drift were
provided for here. But it had not occurred to me, especially
after I had found the northern fringe of the marsh so
well sheltered.
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