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Updated: May 29, 2025
It was printed many years ago in the "Atlantic Monthly," and is called "The Walker of the Snow;" it begins thus: "Ah!" exclaimed my companion. "Let us pile on more of those dry birch-logs; I feel both the 'fear-chill' and the 'cold-chill' creeping over me. How far is it to the valley of the Neversink?" "About three or four hours' march, the man said." "I hope we have no haunted valleys to cross?"
"'But no token of communion Gave he by word or look, And the fear-chill fell upon me At the crossing of the brook. "'For I saw by the sickly moonlight, As I followed, bending low, That the walking of the stranger Left no foot-marks on the snow. "'Then the fear-chill gathered o'er me, Like a shroud around me cast, As I sank upon the snow-drift Where the shadow hunter passed.
"Let us pile on more of those dry birch-logs; I feel both the 'fear-chill' and the 'cold-chill' creeping over me. How far is it to the valley of the Neversink?" "About three or four hours' march, the man said." "I hope we have no haunted valleys to cross?" "None," said I, "but we pass an old log cabin about which there hangs a ghostly superstition.
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