"They've grown tobacco along the eastern bank of the Connecticut River for as long as anyone can remember," Dr. Sam Hawthorne said, pouring a bit of libation for his guest, "but it wasn't until Jasper Jennings came to Northmont during the depths of the Depression that anyone thought seriously about growing it in our part of the state. And that was the beginning of one of the most baffling mysteries I ever came across . . ."

It was in September of '34 that the first decent crop of the Jennings Tobacco Company was ready for harvesting just a few miles north of town. The papers were full of news of the burning of a ship called the Morro Castle off the coast of New Jersey at the time, so nobody took much notice of Jennings' accomplishment. I'd met Jennings when he first came to town and had become something of an unofficial company doctor, treating the occasional cases of sunstroke or dehydration among his poorly paid field hands. Once, in midsummer, he'd shown me around the place, guiding me through the acres of tobacco plants growing beneath great canopies of cheesecloth. He was a thin, hawk-faced man who walked quickly with a bit of a stoop. I had trouble keeping up the pace and he chided me about it. "You need more exercise, Doc. You're twenty years younger than me and you can't walk these fields without gettin' winded."

"I am out of condition," I agreed. "What are these canopies for?"

"By shading the plants with cheesecloth we can produce the large thin leaves that are perfect for cigar wrappers, which is what this soil's best for. When the plant is mature, when the middle leaves are about ripe, we cut the plant off close to the ground and allow it to wilt. Then it's removed to the drying shed until it's ready for curing."

"I know a little about curing," I joked.

Jennings merely stared at me. "The curing generally takes about six weeks, and we help it along with fires if the weather gets too damp. This is the curing barn over here." He led me to a long structure with gaps in the perpendicular siding every few feet, as if someone had run out of boards when it was being built. "Those allow for air curing," Jennings explained. "The worker I treated for the cut hand—"

"Roy Hanson."

"Hanson, yes. He was cutting the plants with an axe and hit his hand instead. But it's too soon for harvesting."

"He wasn't harvesting," Jennings said. "At this time of the season, when the flowering buds appear, we cut off the tops to concentrate growth into the leaves. That's what Hanson was doing when he hurt his hand."

It was the worker's injury that had brought me to the tobacco farm, and after my chat with Jasper Jennings I stopped inside the barn to see how Hanson was coming along. His right hand was still heavily bandaged, but he was able to help assemble the racks that would be used for drying later on.

"How's it feel?" I asked as I unwrapped the bandage.

Hanson was a young man in his twenties with a short haircut and the solid body of an athlete. He'd told me at the time of the injury that he'd done a little amateur boxing, and he was concerned this meant the end of it. "Not bad. It hurts a little at night, though."

"It's healing nicely," I said, removing the last layer of bandage. "Let me put a fresh one on."

"Will I be able to box again, Doc?"

"I don't see why not. But you're lucky. You almost lost half your hand."

Sarah Jennings, Jasper's wife, came into the barn with a pail of water and a dipper. "Anyone for a drink out here? How about you, Sam?" "Thanks, Sarah. I'll pass it by for now," I said.

She was a bright, intelligent woman who moved easily among the men, laughing and joking with them but managing to fend off their occasional advances with ease. I didn't doubt that Jasper would have killed any man he found molesting her, but there didn't seem too much danger of that.

I walked back to the farmhouse with her, to the driveway where my new car was parked. "What's that?" she asked. "An Oldsmobile? You used to go in for sporty cars."

"That was in my younger days," I told her. "Once you pass thirty-five, you have to think about settling down."

"The way to settle down is to get married."

"Maybe I'll think about that, too, if the right woman comes along."

That was my last visit to the Jennings tobacco farm for several weeks. Roy Hanson was able to come to my office the next time his bandage needed changing, and after that I told him he could care for it himself. Soon there'd only be a scar to remind him of the accident.

"He's a nice young man," my nurse April said after he left.

"He wants to be a professional boxer. Can you imagine such a thing?"

"It's difficult for young people to find regular work these days."

"He's not that much younger than we are. Said he was twenty-seven."

"He can't be earning much out at Jennings' tobacco farm," April said, watching him through the window as he walked to the hospital parking lot.

"He's got a girl waiting for him in the car."

"Oh?" I stepped over beside her. "That looks like Sarah Jennings." "Really?"

"I can't be sure at this distance. Maybe she brought him along to help with the weekly shopping."

April went back to her desk as I watched them drive away. "Oh, I almost forgot to tell you," she said. "Sheriff Lens called to invite you to dinner tonight."

"I'll give him a call," I told her. My practice was slow that summer and Sheriff Lens and his wife were always good company.

It was on a warm afternoon in early September that I was next summoned to the Jennings farm. Oddly enough, this time the summons came from Sarah Jennings, and it didn't involve matters of health. She met me in the front parlor of the farmhouse, and the first thing I noticed was that the laughter seemed to have gone out of her eyes. She unfolded a piece of paper and handed it to me. "Would you read this, Sam?"

I skimmed the note, which was block-printed in a childish manner to disguise the handwriting: I KNOW WHAT YOU AND ROY HANSON

ARE DOING IN THE CURING BARN. THE WRATH OF GOD WILL PUNISH YOU FOR YOUR SINS. There was no signature.

"This came in yesterday's mail," she said. "There was another last week that I burned in the stove. You've helped the police solve mysteries, Sam. I want you to find out who's writing these things."

"That's a bit out of my line, Sarah." I hesitated and then asked, "Is there any truth to it?"

Her face flushed scarlet. "Of course not. Roy is a nice young man and I'm friendly toward him like I am to everyone. These letters are a sick perversion."

"You must have some suspects in mind."

"No, I don't. I can't imagine anyone who could hate me this much."

"Have you reported it to Sheriff Lens?"

"What is there to report—two poison-pen letters? I don't even know if it's a crime to send them."

"Does Jasper know?"

She looked away. "I haven't told him. He has so much on his mind right now, trying to harvest his first tobacco crop. I was hoping you could

identify the sender and we could put an end to it."

"How? Suppose I could identify the person who wrote this, what would you do next?"

"I—I suppose I'd confront him or her and demand an apology. If it's one of our hands I'd fire him."

"How many people do you have working here?"

"There's Belinda in the house. She helps me with the cooking and cleaning. Jasper has a half dozen farmhands like Roy who work here full

time. The rest are migrants just hired to help with the harvest."

I got to my feet. "I can't promise anything, Sarah, but I'll take a look around. Who might have seen you and Hanson alone in the curing barn?"

"No one! We've never been alone out there."

"When I was there earlier this summer you brought some drinking water out—do you always do that on warm days?"

"Sometimes," she admitted. "Not always."

"Hanson was working alone inside that day because of his hand."

"Well, yes. But there are usually others around."

"I think you're overly alarmed about the notes. The person who wrote them may be an enemy, but it's an enemy who's afraid to take any more direct action. After all, what could they do besides send you another letter?" She had an answer for that. "Send my husband a letter."

Belinda Sanchez was a large half-Mexican woman who'd been cooking and caring for the Jennings family for nearly a year. I found her in the kitchen with the Jennings' only child, Matthew, an introspective sixteen-year-old who hadn't yet decided whether his father's business was for him.

"Hello, Matthew. How's it feel to be back to school?"

He gave me a sulky look. "Dad's keeping me out till next week, to help with the harvest."

"I thought it would be finished by now."

"Slow season," Belinda chimed in like one of the family. "All that cool weather in June set everything back."

"I'm looking for Roy Hanson, to check on his hand. Have you seen him around?"

"His hand's all healed," Belinda said. "He's out cuttin' tobacco leaves with the others."

I left the house by the back door and walked past the curing barn to the tobacco fields. The cheesecloth canopies were down now and all along the rows of broad-leafed plants, men in undershirts and dungarees were swinging axes. Jasper Jennings was among them, demonstrating to one of the migrant workers the proper method for lifting the broad leaves with one hand while cutting the stalk close to the ground.

I found Hanson hanging the newly cut leaves on drying racks. Other leaves, cut days earlier and now dry, were being moved into the curing barn.

"How's the hand coming along?" I asked him.

"Good as new, Doc." He held it up, flexing his fingers to demonstrate.

"I'd like to speak with you for a minute if you've got the time."

"Sure."

"You know, this is a small town and gossip gets started mighty easy." I glanced around to be certain we weren't overheard. "There's been some talk about you and Mrs. Jennings."

"What? What kind of talk?" He seemed genuinely bewildered.

"Have you been alone with her in the curing barn?"

"Gosh, no—there's always people around. Mr. Jennings is always around somewhere. Who's been telling you these things?"

"That's not important. Just watch your step, Roy. Some people delight in causing trouble."

"Thanks for the tip," he said.

He went on with his work and I strolled farther down the line of workers, watching as they chopped at the stalks of the tobacco plants. Some of these people, I knew, could barely read and write. It wasn't very likely that any of them had written the poison-pen letter Sarah had shown me. More likely it was a neighbor, or someone who called on them regularly. However, there was one other possibility worth looking into.

When I returned to the house, I found Sarah watering the plants on the front porch. "Did you learn anything?" she asked.

"Very little. I talked to Hanson, but he acted innocent. I didn't specifically mention the anonymous letters, just said there'd been some talk."

"Of course he acted innocent—he is innocent! There's not a shred of truth to those letters."

"I wonder, Sarah, could you arrange for me to stay for supper tonight? I'd like to see these people in a more relaxed atmosphere."

"That would be no trouble at all. Belinda always serves enough food for a small army."

The migrant workers and some of the regulars ate together out in the bunkhouse where they slept. Because Hanson and one other employee— Jennings' field boss, Frank Prescott—lived in town, they ate with the family. It was nearly seven by the time the day's chores were completed and I joined them at the dining-room table—Sarah, Jasper, and Matthew plus Hanson and Prescott.

It quickly became obvious that Jennings used the evening meal to review the day's events with his field boss. Prescott was a thin but wiry man in his forties, who spoke only in response to Jennings' questions.

"How'd it go today, Frank? Them migrants getting the crop in? Are you on schedule?"

"Could use a few more," Prescott replied.

Jennings turned to Hanson. "Think you could round up a few hoboes who want a day's work, Roy?"

"There are always a flock of 'em over by the tracks. I don't know how good they'd be at harvesting tobacco—"

"As good as the crew we got," Jennings assured him. "I had to teach one fella how to swing an axe today."

Hanson promised to round up some day laborers on his way to work the following morning and the conversation shifted to the size of the crop. "Ain't as big as we hoped for," Frank Prescott admitted, "but this is only the first year. It's bound to get better."

Belinda finished off the meal with some delicious apple pie, then Jennings went outside with Prescott and Hanson to check on the racks of drying leaves. The radio had said there were showers in the area and Jennings wanted to be certain the newly cut tobacco was under cover. I went upstairs with Matthew to a typical boy's bedroom crowded with college pennants and piles of dirty clothes. An unfinished game of Monopoly was on the floor, and a bunch of blue balloons from a recent carnival floated against the ceiling. On his cluttered dresser were a couple of 4-H Club ribbons, testifying to at least a little gainful effort. "I wanted to talk with you alone, Matthew," I said.

"What about?" he asked sullenly. "I'm not sick."

"I was wondering about Frank Prescott and Roy Hanson. You must see a lot of them, and they eat dinner with the family every night. Do you like them?"

He glanced away. "Yeah, they're okay."

"Do they talk to you much?" I motioned toward the Monopoly board. "Do they play games with you?"

"Roy comes up here once in a while. He likes Monopoly. I don't see much of Mr. Prescott except at dinner and in the field. He's a lot older than me."

"He seems sort of quiet," I suggested. "Doesn't say much."

"Oh, he talks when my dad's not around."

"Does your mother like them—Roy and Mr. Prescott?"

"I guess so."

I'd been seated on the edge of the bed while we talked. Now I stood up and said, "Maybe we can have a Monopoly game ourselves someday soon.

Would you like that?"

He shrugged. "I guess so."

"Good. Matthew, if you ever have any problems I'd be glad to talk them over with you. They don't have to be medical problems. I'm a good listener. I was your age once—I know there are sometimes things you don't like to talk to your folks about."

He didn't answer, so I went back downstairs. Jasper Jennings was in the kitchen. "Something wrong with the lights in the curing barn," he announced. "I think it's a fuse." He rummaged around until he found a box of fuses, then went back outside. It was dark now, though near the house I could see Prescott carrying some logs to one of the woodpiles.

"They'll be startin' a fire soon," Belinda told me. "With rain threatening, they gotta make sure the harvested leaves stay dry." She opened the icebox and started chipping away at a new block of ice.

"You really have your share of work," I remarked, "cooking for the family and all the others, too."

"I don't mind it." She went on chipping ice.

"Do you like Roy Hanson?"

"Sure. Everybody likes Roy."

"Is Mrs. Jennings around?"

"I think she went outside," Belinda said.

I went out the back door and started across the barnyard. The lights hadn't yet been restored in the barn, but through the breaks in the wall I could make out the occasional shadows of men moving around. "Hello!"I called out.

"We're in the barn, Doc," a voice answered. I thought it was Prescott.

I entered and started making my way through the maze of curing racks, smelling the pungent odor of the tobacco. The place was in darkness, with only the lights from the farmhouse on one side and those in the bunkhouse on the other giving some slight illumination, and as I moved farther in among the racks even this slim light was blotted out. "Hello!" I called again.

"Over here," Jasper Jennings said.

I made my way toward his voice.

Suddenly there was a gasping, gurgling sound that chilled my blood. "What's happening?" I asked, moving faster and running into a rack of tobacco leaves that scattered and fell in my path.

The overhead lights went on, and I saw Prescott and Hanson about twenty feet in front of me by the fusebox. Jasper Jennings was sprawled on the dirt floor in front of them. His throat had been cut.

He died with his eyes open and beseeching, as if begging for help I was too late to give him.

I worked over Jennings for several minutes but there was nothing I could do to restore his life. "What happened?" I asked the two men standing helplessly above me. "Who killed him?" I could see no sign of a weapon.

Frank Prescott was shaking his head in bewilderment. "Damned if I know, Doc. I just heard him give this—sound and he fell over. We were all standing close enough to touch each other."

"All right," I said, "empty out your pockets. I need to make sure neither of you has a knife."

I checked their pockets, then frisked them quickly as I'd seen Sheriff Lens do on more than one occasion. There was no weapon.

"What's going on out here?" It was Sarah Jennings, coming toward us down the aisle of the barn. "Is that Jasper on the floor!"

"Go back to the house and call the sheriff," I told her. "There's been an accident."

"Jasper—"

I went to her and placed a comforting arm around her shoulders. "I'm terribly sorry, Sarah. He's dead." She screamed and half fell.

I helped her back to the house and told Belinda to call Sheriff Lens. Matthew had come downstairs and was standing ashen-faced in the kitchen. "You've got to be a brave young man now," I told him. "Your mother needs all the help and strength you can give her."

We left Jennings where he was until the sheriff arrived. He examined the body quickly and then turned to me. "At least it's not one of those lockedroom murders you're always gettin' involved with, Doc. This barn's got more holes than a rusty sieve. What happened—did they run out of lumber?"

"It's a curing barn," I explained. "The dried tobacco needs air circulating around it. There's also fire curing, using smoke to do the job, but most

American tobacco is air cured."

"You sound like an expert on the subject, Doc."

"Jennings gave me a lecture tour here this summer."

"Which of those two killed him—Hanson or Prescott?"

"I hate to tell you this, Sheriff, but they both swear neither one could have done it. Their hands were empty when they entered the barn with Jennings. Hanson was wearing a loose jacket but it has no pockets. I searched them both within seconds of the killing and neither one had a weapon. There's no weapon on the barn floor or among the racks of tobacco."

"That don't mean a thing, Doc. You don't need a knife to cut a throat.

I know of cases where it's been done with a thin wire."

"So do I, but not this case. If he was garroted there'd be a mark all around his neck. And he didn't walk into a hanging wire because he was standing still at the time."

"An angler could cast a sharp fishhook—"

"In the dark, Sheriff? With him standing between two other people? Besides, look at that cut across his throat—it's much too smooth to have been made by something like a fishhook. The sharpened blade was drawn

quickly across his throat in one firm motion, from right to left."

"What does that mean?"

"In wounds like this the killer almost always stands behind the victim and reaches over his shoulder. If he's in front of the victim, the victim will reflexively jerk backward at the first touch of the blade to his throat. Also, of course, standing behind protects the killer's clothes from the blood."

"What are you tryin' to say, Doc?"

"The killer stood behind him, reached over his left shoulder, and cut his throat with a quick pull of the blade from right to left. You can see that from the wound. It means the killer is left-handed."

Sheriff Lens looked grim. "Come on, Doc. We're checkin' out everyone on this farm."

The following hour was frustrating for us both. Sarah and Matthew Jennings were both right-handed, as was Belinda. Roy Hanson and Frank Prescott were both right-handed, too. The only left-handed people on the farm proved to be two of the migrant workers in the bunkhouse. But the migrants and the live-in employees had been still at the dinner table when the murder occurred. They all swore no one had left the table in the bunkhouse for even a moment.

Sheriff Lens was exasperated. "Look here, Doc, Hanson and Prescott swear neither of them had a weapon, and they're sure they'd have heard another person approaching. Sarah and her son and the cook were outa sight of each other, without alibis, but all five of them people are right-handed. And everyone in the bunkhouse has an ironclad alibi."

I went outside to speak with Hanson and Prescott again. Sheriff Lens had a deputy searching the floor of the barn in case a knife had been hurled away after the crime, but I was pretty sure he wouldn't find anything.

"Tell me something, Roy," I said. "You were going to hire some hoboes as day workers in the morning. How far away is their camp by the railroad tracks?"

"About a mile, I reckon." He looked puzzled.

"Might one of them have wandered over here tonight, looking for work, and come into the barn while you were there?"

It was Prescott who answered, shaking his head. "Not a chance, Doc. The fuse for the lights had been removed by someone to get Jasper out to the barn. A passing bum wouldn't have known he'd come out himself to fix something like that. And a bum would have no motive for killing him.

Besides, I tell you we would have known it if someone sneaked up on us."

"Then how do you think he was killed?"

"I'm stumped," Prescott admitted. "I just don't know."

I turned back to Hanson. "Roy?"

"He sure didn't kill himself, that's all I know."

Sheriff Lens had been reading up on big-city police methods, and one of his deputies was taking a flash photograph of the body in the barn. I went back into the kitchen, where Belinda was attempting to comfort Sarah.

"Have they found anything yet?" Sarah asked me.

"Not yet. The deputies are searching the barn."

"It happened because of me, didn't it? Because of those letters?"

"I doubt that."

She dried her eyes and tried to compose herself while Belinda made a pretense of straightening the kitchen. "You try to do what's best," Sarah murmured, talking more to herself than to me. "You marry and raise a family. You watch your son grow into manhood, watch him start to go out with girls—"

"What are you trying to say, Sarah? Are you talking about Jasper or Matthew?"

"I don't know. Both of them." She started crying again and Belinda came to comfort her.

I climbed the stairs to the second floor and knocked softly on the closed door of Matthew's room. "Go away!" he said.

I opened the door and stepped inside. "I want to talk to you," I told him.

"About your father."

"He's dead. I killed him."

I sat down next to him on the bed and gripped his shoulders. He looked at me.

"I wrote some letters to Mom, about her and Roy Hanson. That's why Dad was killed."

"You wrote—" I'd already suspected it, of course. The English was too good to have come from Belinda or most of the others. But his admission was still a shock.

"Why did you do it, Matthew? Why would you put your mother through that torment?"

"She paid more attention to Roy than to me. I stayed in my room at night while he was down there in the living room with her."

"I thought you and Roy were friends. You said he played Monopoly with you."

"Just for something to do while his hand was healing. He didn't really care about me."

"Did you see him in the curing barn with your mother?"

He looked away. "No." His voice was low. "I made that up. I just wanted to hurt her. I thought maybe she'd stay away from him and pay more attention to me."

"We're going to have to tell her what you did, Matthew. It was very bad, but it had nothing to do with your father's death. You can't go on blaming yourself for that."

I stayed with him a while longer and he talked about his father and his mother, and about his dream of moving to the city. Finally I left him and went back downstairs. Sheriff Lens was standing in the barnyard, looking dejected.

"We searched every inch of the barn floor, Doc. There's no knife or anything else that coulda been used to cut his throat." I had an idea.

"Have you searched Jennings' pockets?"

"Huh? I didn't think of that."

"If Prescott or Roy Hanson did kill him, they might have slipped the knife in his pocket to get rid of it."

It was a good idea, but there was nothing in Jennings' pockets but a handkerchief and a plug of chewing tobacco. Sheriff Lens stood up after searching him, shook his head, and ordered the body removed to the hospital for an autopsy. "Looks like we struck out on this one, Doc." "Give me some time," I told him.

Some of the other workers were standing in the shadows watching the activity. Maybe they were worried about their jobs now that Jennings was dead. That must have occurred to Sarah, too, because she sent Frank Prescott out to speak with them.

"Mrs. Jennings says you're not to worry about your jobs. Work will go on tomorrow as scheduled. She's going to keep the farm running."

It was too gloomy an occasion for any cheers, but his words seemed to ignite a spark in the men. There were murmurs of agreement as they headed back to the bunkhouse.

Sheriff Lens stood watching Prescott. "Think the two of 'em are in it together, Doc?"

"No. I don't think they were that friendly."

"What do I do now?"

"Look for a left-handed person."

He looked at me. "There's no left-handed person among the possible suspects."

"Then it must be an impossible crime," I said with a grin.

"What's that smile for? You know something, Doc?"

"Just an idea. I'll check it out," I said. But suddenly I knew I was right.

I found Sarah alone in the parlor and sat across from her. "I found out who was writing those letters."

"That seems a long time ago now."

"It was Matthew. He admitted it to me."

"Why? Did he say why he'd do such a terrible thing?"

"He thought you were paying more attention to Roy than to him. Roy's only eleven years older than your son, you know."

"I know." Her face was drawn and pale. "But to torture me with such lies

—"

I took a deep breath.

"They were lies to Matthew. But there was some truth in it, wasn't there? In striking out at you with those anonymous letters, your son touched a vulnerable spot. You and Roy Hanson are lovers, and when you showed the letters to Roy he panicked. He must have feared that Jasper had either

written the letters himself or would find out about them."

"Stop it!" she shouted at me, leaping to her feet. "Don't say anything more. You're going to accuse Roy of killing my husband and it's not true! I know it's not true!"

"I'm terribly sorry, Sarah. But Roy Hanson killed Jasper and I think you know it."

Sarah Jennings did know it was true. Sheriff Lens took some convincing.

"If he cut Jasper's throat, what happened to the knife? Don't try telling me he used a piece of ice that melted away. The wound was too smooth for that. It had to have been made by something very sharp."

"It was, Sheriff. I'd guess it was made by a razor blade."

"What happened to it?"

"Give me your flashlight and maybe I'll show you."

I took the flashlight and led the way back inside the curing barn to the spot where Jasper Jennings had been struck down. Shining the light straight up,

I directed the beam around the highest parts of the roof, above the hanging lights that illuminated the place. "There. Do you see it?"

"I see something. Looks like—hell, it looks like a blue balloon!"

"Exactly—and it's tied to a blade from a safety razor. Hanson took the balloon from Matthew's room. He was up there playing Monopoly with the boy earlier. He tied it to the razor blade and slipped it under the loose jacket he was wearing. He knew Jennings would go out to replace the fuse himself, and he got Prescott to go along, too. In the darkness he reached over Jasper's shoulder and slit his throat with one stroke, getting his hand out of the way before blood started to flow. Then he simply released his grip on the razor blade and the balloon carried it up to the roof of the barn. It was well out of sight there, and even if we'd looked up it isn't likely we'd have spotted that blue color. He probably planned to retrieve it tomorrow before it was noticed in the daylight. If he couldn't reach it on a ladder he could puncture it with a slingshot or a BB gun."

"It could have been Prescott that done it," the sheriff argued.

I shook my head.

"Hanson had the motive, which I'll tell you about later. And Hanson had access to the balloons in Matthew's room. Most of all, Roy Hanson is lefthanded."

"Hell, Doc, we been all through that! He's right-handed—he proved it."

"A small number of people are ambidextrous and can use both hands equally well. Hanson's one of them. I have the best evidence in the world for that, because earlier this summer I treated him for a hand injury. He was trimming the tops off tobacco plants with an axe when he accidentally hit the hand holding the plant. He hit his right hand, Sheriff, which means he was swinging the axe with his left hand—the same hand he used to cut Jennings' throat."

"Hanson was a tragic young man," Dr. Sam concluded, taking a sip of sherry. "He ran away that night when Sheriff Lens tried to arrest him. They found him in the morning over by the railroad tracks. He'd tried to hop a freight train in the dark and fell under the wheels. It took Sarah a long time to recover from the double tragedy of that night.

"Next time you come by the house, I'll tell you about my winter vacation in Maine, and about some strange tracks in the snow."