And then we came to the crossroads
where the trail bent west into the town. If I had known
the road more thoroughly, I should have turned there,
too. It would have added another two miles to my already
overlong trip, but I invariably did it later on. Firstly,
the horses will rest up much more completely when put
into a stable for feeding. And secondly, there always
radiate from a town fairly well beaten trails. It is a
mistake to cut across from one such trail to another.
The straight road, though much shorter, is apt to be
entirely untravelled, and to break trail after a heavy
snowstorm is about as hard a task as any that you can
put your team up against. I had the road; there was no
mistaking it; it ran along between trees and fences which
were plainly visible; but there were ditches and brush
buried under the snow which covered the grade to a depth
of maybe three feet, and every bit of these drifts was
of that treacherous character that I have described.
If you look at some small drift piled up, maybe, against
the glass pane of a storm window, you can plainly see
how the snow, even in such a miniature pile, preserves
the stratified appearance which is the consequence of
its being laid down in layers of varying density.
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