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Updated: May 21, 2025
No, only an innocent little snipe, getting merry over the change of weather, bleating to his companions as though breeding time were come round again. Crowd close, little snipes, among the cup-moss and wolf's-foot, for he who stalks past you over the midnight moor, meditates a foul and treacherous murder in his heart. Yes, it had come to that, and so quickly.
Of a grim appearance, without softness, they cared not for caresses. Thou knowest not the road. The hair on thy head stands on end; it bristles up. Thy soul is given into thy hands. Thy path is full of rocks and boulders, there is no way out near; it is overgrown with creepers and wolf's-foot. Abysses are on one side of thee, the mountain and the wall of rock on the other.
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