And I quote from page 103 of "Tranquility" (1940) in the story Ghost Birds about shooting woodcock in the snow.
""There ain't a woodcock in there," declared the Captain positively. "Look at it! But it's a pretty sight, just the same, and the fire'll feel mighty comfortable when we get back to it after sloshing around in this mess for an hour or two."
The judge had lost some of his earlier assurance, even though he wouldn't admit it. After all, it was a long way back to that day in 1901 with Old Bill Ward, and it might just be that it hadn't snowed quite so hard on that occasion as he thought it had. But he dropped a couple of 9's into his old double, raised the hammers and stepped in among the stems. "Come on," he ordered.
The other did as he was bade. There was a ghostly appearance about the environment that the lean sportsman never forgot afterwards. A thin vapor rose from the earth and mingled with the flakes. In it the dark figure of the Judge, thirty paces distant, became vague, distorted and grotesque. He might have been one of Rip Van Winkle's strange Little Men of the Kaatskills finding his way back to the glen above the Hudson through the murk that enshrouded the hills.
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