e candle from its
place in the snow and waved it gently before the bag, then he paused
cautiously. His imagination had rallied from the cold and was now his
closest companion. He saw strange shapes flitting here and there among
the shadows. He heard every now and then a new, strange voice of the
woods. The trees, it seemed to him, were murmuring their disapproval
of such things as snowbird hunts. A myriad of unseen folk were peeping at
him from limb and stump and shadow. He knew they were there, even if he
couldn't see them, yet a strong feeling of loneliness crept over him. It
seemed ages since the boys had left him there, still it had been only a
few moments.

His spirit was gradually becoming restless, and he began to wonder if
there really were any such things as snowbirds, after all. He wished he
was back again in the cabin by the fire. If he thought they were playing
a joke on him, he would slip back to the cabin and fool them. He had
half a notion to do it anyway. What was the use of his standing there?
Which way was the cabin? He sighed and wiped the perspiration from his
forehead. It was just over there, wasn't it? No, that couldn't be. It
must be over yonder. The trail ran through the grove to his right. That
couldn't be, the stream was over there, for he heard it every now and
then. He began talking half-aloud.

"If the stream is over there, the cabin is over here." He paused and drew
his hand across his eyes. "No, no, if that were true, the stream would
flow uphill, and, of course, it doesn't."

Far away he heard a series of little chirps, faint but unmistakable. He
was alert in an instant. Yes, that was the snowbirds, and they were
coming. He wondered if Fat heard them and was ready. Where was Fat,
anyway? How strange he felt, now he was almost afraid, for he was sure
something was watching him. He shaded his eyes and peered into the
gloom, but could see nothing. Far away in the timber it seemed to him
he heard brush snapping--still he knew there was nothing bigger than a
skunk or a rabbit in the whole valley. Still--and his breath came
shorter; had not a mountain lion been killed on Black Mountain just
day before yesterday? His imagination suggested hungry kittens searching
for a lost mother, and a tremor ran over his body, making his muscles
quiver. Was that a snarl? A whine far off, yet near to him? The candle
slipped from his shaking fingers and fell in the snow beside him. He made
a grab for it, and