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"Look at this!" I said to Peter and Margie White whose fine company Lee Trott and I were enjoying. We were walking in their woods near Sperry ville, on that cold autumn - morning.
"Packing stuff," said Margie White. The white coils did look as if someone had tossed a handful of plastic packing on -the dry oak leaves.
"No," I said. "It's ice." I broke off a piece and tasted, my usual approach in my outdoor ramblings. The curled ribbons of blue-white ice looked like nothing so much as shavings on the floor of a woodworking shop.
The ice spirals had a sweet taste. My attention was excited. What had caused these ice shavings in the . woods? We moved on. For the time I forgot my puzzlement when we found the delicate and tightly woven basket of last year's vireo nest hanging between sling-shot prongs of a dogwood tree. Plant material had been held together, with spider webbing; the lining was of reddish brown I needles of the white pine. How many ; times had I looked for the nest of a constantly singing Red-eyed Vireo never to find it until the woods were bare of leaves?
Another cluster of coils of white - ice caught my attention. I was - reminded of those elegant shavings of ’ cold butter that appear on some elegant dining tables. How was I to solve the riddle of frozen winter flowers?
More fragile ice spirals were clustered on the side of the road. I was not allowed to forget the ribbons of ice.
We came home to Hint Hill with - warm and satisfying memories of
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