I hit her clean [in the side] with the first shot and she took off. The snow made it easy to follow the trail of blood. But I went after her slowly, or else she might take off.

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

Come, see the north-wind's masonry, Out of an unseen quarry evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he For number or proportion.

Sunshine cannot bleach the snow, Nor time unmake what poets know

Let every man shovel out his own snow and the whole city will be passable.

We're left now with just a little bit of snow at the bottom of the screen,