A Wolf.
But of all our animals it seems to me the birds have solved the winter problem best. Possessing an enduring power of flight and a knowledge of a southern sunny sky, beneath which food is plentiful, they alone of all the living forms about us have little fear of the coming of the frost. True, fifty or more species remain in each of the Northern States during the cold season, but they are hardy birds which feed mainly upon seeds, as the snow-bird and song sparrow; on flesh, as the hawks and crows; or on burrowing insects, as the nut-hatches and woodpeckers.
Such are some of the solutions to the problem of life in winter which the plants and animals about us have worked out; such some of the forms which they undergo; the places which they inhabit.
To the thinking mind a knowledge of these solutions but begets other and greater problems, such as how can a living thing be frozen solid for weeks and yet retain vitality enough to fully recover? How can a warm-blooded animal sleep for months without partaking of food or drink? And greater than either, what is that which we call life?
I hold in my hand two objects, similar in size, color, organs, everything—twins from the same mother in all outward respects. One pulsates and throbs with that which we call “life.” It possesses heat, bodily motion, animal power. The other is cold, motionless, pulseless, throbless—a thing of clay. What is that “life” which the one possesses and the other lacks? Ah, there’s the rub! With the wisest of men we can only answer, “Quien sabe?” (Who knows?)
Winter House of Muskrat.