he fact. Just exactly what
Boola told Baltook by this means, I do not know. Whatever it was,
Baltook was reassured, and came slowly up to the mouth of the den. Dusty
Star never stirred. But again--as he had done with Boola--he moved his
mind towards Baltook, while he kept his body still.

And so, while the afternoon climbed still higher, and the evening came
softly after it, on its soundless shadow-feet, the three sat on silently
together and learnt to know each other, without anything being said. It
is like that in the forest-life. You sit in silence, with your mind
open; and so you learn to understand.

When at last Baltook and then Boola began to show signs of restlessness,
Dusty Star knew it was time to go. He never said good-bye. There was no
need. He just rose to his feet quietly and walked down into the trees.
The two foxes carefully smelt the place where he had sat, and then,
while Boola went back to her cubs, Baltook followed the trail.

It was very dark when Dusty Star reached the camp. Kiopo, who was out
hunting, had not returned. Dusty Star made a fire by rubbing two sticks
together in the Indian way, in order to be ready to cook anything which
Kiopo might bring back.

In the gloom of the dark woods, a black shadow having a wrinkling nose
sat up and smelt the fire with wonder, and violent disapproval; and when
a little later, the figure of an enormous wolf holding a hare in his
jaws, glided into the open, the shadow with the wrinkling nose followed
the best fox-wisdom and melted back into the trees.

Although Dusty Star did not actually tell Kiopo where he had been
visiting, Kiopo smelt foxiness, and learnt a good deal. Foxes he did not
mind, so long as they behaved themselves. If Dusty Star had been with
them, Kiopo was not going to make a fuss. So, Dusty Star cooked and ate
his hare supper, and thought of the little foxes, and wished they had
the bones.

CHAPTER XII

GOSHMEELEE

In the deep, damp silence of the ancient forest you could not hear a
sound. Through the swampy thickets, sodden with old rain, and floored
with slime, nothing stirred. The very trees--cedar, tamarack, waterash,
and black poplar--seemed to do their growing by stealth, as if afraid of
its being found out. Even the skunk cabbage--that robust
vegetable--spread its broad leaves craftily, as if it covered a world of
secrecy, and might at any moment be forced to confess. If any life were
gnawing at the roots of this damp