The baby refused to be separated from her pet and, when it was found that the skunk meant no harm, but seemed, on the contrary, quite happy in her company, she was permitted to play with him to her heart's content. Sometimes with a string around his neck she led him about the clearing and, though the big animal could easily have broken away, he made no effort to do so. He was fed with good things until his gait became an undignified waddle. Moreover he loved the petting which was lavished upon him by this small backwoods maiden.

One day after a week of intense cold, during which the baby was confined to the house and the skunk to the warmest corner of his box, the two companions were again abroad, the skunk as usual being led happily along. The baby's wanderings took her farther and farther from the house until, upon rounding the corner of the poultry house which overlooked the lonely pasture, she suddenly found herself face to face with a gaunt, gray timber wolf.

She did not scream, but stood as if rooted to the spot. Both were surprised but the wolf was the first to recover. He was starving and here was food close at hand, to be had for the taking. His eyes flamed as he crouched for the spring. Still the child stood, unable to move, her eyes fixed as if fascinated on the savage ones so near.

It was a tense moment but the tragedy was averted by the big skunk. With banner unfurled he stepped between the wolf and his prey. One moment the wolf glared at the small black and white animal, whom he remembered only too well. The blood lust quickly faded from his eyes, replaced by a great fear. The next moment, with tail between his legs, he was in full retreat, running as he had never run before, while the child rushed screaming to the house.

The big skunk stood where they had left him, looking across the snowy pasture. The sight of the ridge with its group of birch trees and the gray rocks of the pasture recalled the memory of his old free life, and of the den where he had slept so snugly. His weeks of pampered life seemed to fall from him as if they had not been. Without a backward glance he crossed the pasture and vanished over the ridge, the white string trailing behind, the only link remaining between him and the life of the settlements.



THE TWINS

The twins were born one blustery winter day in a den hollowed out beneath the roots of a giant beech. They were woolly black bear cubs, who at birth were blind and no larger than kittens. With nothing to do but to eat and sleep, they grew rapidly. Outside in the forest the gales howled and the snow drifted deep, but the cave was well protected and the great bulk of Mother Bruin kept it warm and of an even temperature.

Before the snow had disappeared the old bear left the cave each day, driven forth by hunger after her long winter fast, but the cubs remained at home until the north wind with its blizzards was forced to retreat before the balmy wind of the south. Then they tumbled out into the sunshine, blinking and rubbing their eyes with their little black paws at the abrupt change from dusk to bright daylight.

It was a wonderful world in which they found themselves. Patches of snow still lingered in the hollows, but the earth was rapidly discarding its brown winter mantle, replacing it with one of living green. The gracefully drooping branches of a group of birch trees standing beside the stream were delicately filmed with green; the air was sweet with the breath of arbutus; and from a tree close beside the swollen brook drifted the six plaintive notes of a white-throated sparrow.

Scraping away the dry leaves under a beech tree, Mother Bruin disclosed a few of the little three-cornered nuts, moldy from their long contact with the earth but, nevertheless, acceptable food for a bear. A little farther on she dug for roots in the soft mud at the edge of a swamp, now vocal with the spring call of the hylas. The cubs followed her, full of curiosity concerning everything they beheld in this new and fascinating world.

Several weeks later, while the Hermit was roaming the woods with his familiar brown bag upon his back, he was granted the rare privilege of watching the bear family when the three were unaware of his presence. Mother Bruin, as usual, was leading the way, the cubs, as like as two peas, following single file in her footsteps and imitating her every move so faithfully that the Hermit chuckled to himself. When the big bear halted and looked about her, the small bears also halted and looked eagerly about; when she sniffed at a fallen log, they, too, sniffed; and once when she sneezed, the cubs looked curiously at her and then tried faithfully to imitate the sound.

The ants were busy making their community dwellings and when Mother Bruin paused to lick up a mouthful, two little red tongues joined hers, the cubs smacking their lips over the treat. At length, their hunger satisfied, the family stopped under a great pine and the cubs began a rough and tumble game, while Mother Bruin sat on her haunches, keenly watchful of every move. Occasionally, for no reason which the Hermit could detect, one or the other of the cubs would receive a boxing from his mother which would set him howling. The punishment was soon forgotten, however, and it is to be hoped that it did them good. Over and over they rolled on the brown pine needles, two furry balls cuffing and biting at each other. Then they paused and sat up panting, exactly as Mother Bruin was sitting.

The effect was so ludicrous that the Hermit had much ado to keep from laughing aloud, but he also had a wholesome fear of Mother Bruin when she felt that her cubs might be in danger. So he stifled the laugh that would have betrayed his presence and at length slipped unobtrusively away.

While shambling through the forest one day Mother Bruin made a wonderful discovery. She came to a tree which had recently fallen to the forest floor and from within came a curious humming. She stopped abruptly to listen, her great head cocked to one side and her eyes shining with anticipation. The cubs also paused, cocked their heads upon one side and waited expectantly. Mother Bruin soon assured herself that there could be no mistake. With her terrible claws she ripped open the rotting log, disclosing a mass of well-filled honey-comb and liberating a great swarm of bees. The air was soon filled with their angry buzzing.

The cubs decided that the spot was not a healthful one and retreated to the bushes, but Mother Bruin paid no attention to the enraged owners of the hive. For a few moments the cubs watched wonderingly; then the tree with its appetizing odour called them and they shambled up to it, the bees being too busy carrying away their store to bother them.

One of the cubs thrust a little black paw into the mass of amber honey and then, as any child would have done, transferred the paw to his mouth. Immediately there spread over his comical little face a look of utter happiness. The other cub, seeing her brother thus pleasantly engaged, lost no time in following his example and the two were soon smeared with honey from top to toe. Never were little bears happier.

The three gorged themselves until they could hold no more. And all the next day the cubs were busy licking their own paws and furry coats, or each other's. It mattered not which, for both bears were literally "as sweet as honey."

As the season advanced and the cubs grew more self-reliant, Mother Bruin occasionally left them for a whole day or night while she traveled farther than their short legs would permit them to follow. Upon one of these occasions when they were left to shift for themselves, the Hermit came suddenly upon them, grubbing for roots at the border of the swamp. Man and cubs were alike surprised and stood eyeing each other. The cubs caught a strange, disturbing odour, but curiosity was stronger than fear and they held their ground.



Seeing that they had no intention of running away, the Hermit, careful to make no sudden movement, drew from his pocket a lump of sugar which he always carried in the hope of meeting Brown Brother, the deer. He seated himself upon a log and placed the sugar upon the ground in front of him. The cubs also sat down and looked at the man and the sugar. Clearly this strange creature meant no harm and the white object looked good. For a while longer the cubs regarded him keenly while the man refrained from looking directly at them lest his eyes make them uneasy.

At length one of the cubs, the one who had first investigated the bee tree, advanced cautiously, keeping his eyes on the man, and sniffed at the sugar. The next moment he had gobbled it up and was licking his lips in appreciation. It was almost, if not quite, as good as honey. Seeing his delight, the other cub forgot her fear and demanded her sugar lump. They then permitted the Hermit to pet them to his heart's content, while they nosed about his pockets for more sweets.

He had made two close friends, as he discovered a bit later, somewhat to his embarrassment. For when he rose to continue his way, the cubs trotted after him as a matter of course. Try as he would he could not rid himself of them. The cubs had found him a source of good and they stuck to him like burrs. Vainly he shouted at them, waving his arms like windmills; the cubs only sat back upon their haunches and looked at him in wonder, until he could not help laughing. Then he tried throwing sticks at them but this method, also, had no effect. Their hides were thick and sticks meant nothing to them.

Finally he stopped and looked down at the two small bears with an expression blended of amusement and annoyance. He knew that, should the mother bear return and find the cubs following her natural enemy, she would not wait for explanations. There would be but one explanation in her mind and her vengeance would be swift. The Hermit had seen her and from afar noted with respect her great bulk. Moreover, he was unarmed. To say the least, the situation was an unpleasant one, and he wished heartily that he had not been so quick to make friends. Every crackling twig in the forest brought a quickening of his pulses but, fortunately for him, Mother Bruin was miles away, enjoying a meal of berries.

Meanwhile the Hermit's situation was growing more uncomfortable. One of the cubs seemed to have made up his mind that the man had more sugar, which he was deliberately keeping from them. Accordingly he attempted to scale the Hermit as he would a tree, a proceeding to which the man objected most emphatically. The cub was big and heavy and his claws were sharp. With a yell the man dislodged him and sprang aside.

As it happened, this movement was his salvation, for it recalled to his mind the bag upon his back. The bag contained two apples and several cookies which he had carried with him, expecting to be gone from his cabin the greater part of the day. Now as he remembered them, he gave a sigh of relief. The cubs watched him with interested eyes as he drew the good things from the bag and deposited them upon the ground under a big tree. As he had hoped, the bears at once fell upon them and became so engrossed that he was able to slip out of sight behind the tree. He immediately took to his heels, never stopping until he had put a safe distance between himself and the too-friendly bear cubs.

The paths of the man and the cubs, however, were destined often to cross. Not long after this experience they met again. In the Hermit's clearing, close to the fence, stood a sweet apple tree loaded with fruit. Approaching it one day to see if the apples were ripening, the Hermit discovered two furry balls among the branches and found himself looking into two pairs of bright little eyes. Quickly ascertaining that Mother Bruin was not present, he paused beneath the tree and called, in as stern a voice as he could assume, "Come down out of my apple tree, you little thieves!"

The more timid bear climbed to a higher branch, but the male cub sat comfortably, his feet dangling, one paw holding to the branch and the other to the trunk, and looked down at the man. His expression so resembled that of a small boy caught stealing apples, that the Hermit laughed aloud and Pal trotted up to see what was going on.

At sight of the bears the dog seemed to go wild. He circled the tree, barking furiously, while the cubs watched him in wonder. Fearing that Mother Bruin might at any moment appear and misunderstand the situation, the Hermit was about to call the dog and return to the house, leaving the bears in possession of the tree. Before he could pucker his lips for a whistle, however, the situation was taken from his hands. One of the cubs, upon shifting his position, loosened a small apple which fell directly into the upturned face of the dog. With a yelp of pain and astonishment Pal scuttled for the cabin, his tail between his legs and his interest in bear cubs suddenly evaporating.

The Hermit looked up in mock reproach at the cub. "Aren't you ashamed to treat my dog that way after I fed you sugar and gave you my lunch?" he asked. "And now I suppose I shall have to give you more sugar to get you to come down. I don't care to have Mother Bruin with her three hundred odd pounds roosting in my apple tree."

He went to the house, returning with a number of lumps of sugar and several apples. The cubs at once scrambled from the tree, keeping their eyes greedily upon the good things with which they allowed themselves to be tolled some distance into the woods. There the Hermit left them to feast while he made good time back to the cabin and his chastened dog.

In their wanderings one day in late summer the cubs, now so fat and well fed that their gait was a mere waddle, came upon a great patch of blueberries. Here was a treat indeed. They rose upon their hind legs and greedily stripped the branches until their faces were so stained with juice that Mother Bruin would scarcely have recognized them.

Now it happened that they had found the same blueberry patch on the bank of the Little Vermilion that Mokwa, the big bear, had discovered after his strange ride the year before. And as so often happens, history repeated itself. The cubs wandered to the edge of the river, and seeing a log with one end resting on the bank and the other in the water, the more venturesome of the twins crouched upon it with his face close to the water to look for fish. His weight at the end caused the log to tip. Into the river he went, heels over head, while the log slipped loose from its moorings.

At that point the water was not deep and the bear soon regained his feet but, as he scrambled back upon the log, it drifted farther out. The next moment it was caught by the current and carried swiftly along, the little bear crouching upon it in a frightened heap. The second cub watched her brother in astonishment, half inclined to enter the water and follow. At that moment, however, Mother Bruin appeared upon the shore and at sight of the log and its occupant became greatly excited.

Down the bank she rushed, scrambling over logs and through bushes, scaring some of the smaller wilderness folk almost out of their wits. She had eyes for nothing except the cub which was being carried rapidly toward the falls. The second cub tried to follow the mother, whimpering for her to wait, but as the old bear paid no attention to her cries, she at length gave up the attempt and followed more leisurely.

Meanwhile, the male cub was being carried swiftly along in mid-stream, the thunder of the falls growing steadily louder. Although he did not understand the sound, it made him uneasy. He whined pitifully as he watched Mother Bruin, trying to keep abreast of him upon the shore, yet so far away. The falls were alarmingly close when suddenly the eyes of the cub brightened. Just ahead, and very near the brink of the falls, the forest reached an arm out into the river, and standing at the extreme end was a man, fishing—the same man who had fed him with sweets.

At the moment when the cub spied him, the Hermit saw the cub and recognized his danger. "Poor little fellow!" he said aloud in compassion. "I wish there were some way of helping him."

As if in answer to his wish, a way was opened. An eddy carried the floating log directly toward the shore where the Hermit stood, and for a moment he believed it would touch. He soon saw, however, that it would just miss the point and that, unless the cub jumped at the right moment, nothing could save him from the falls. The man groaned; then quick as a flash he saw a way of rescuing the little animal. He rushed out into the water as far as he could safely stand, holding to a tree which leaned horizontally over the stream. As the log came abreast of him, but just out of reach, he held out his hand.

This time the hand held no sugar, but the cub knew it as a friend and did not hesitate. He leaped into the water, battling frantically with the current. At first he seemed doomed to be swept on after the log, which at that moment hung trembling at the brink of the falls before the plunge. The cub's struggles, however, brought him near enough for the Hermit to grasp his thick fur. Then, gripping the tree until his knuckles whitened and exerting his utmost strength, the man slowly drew the animal to safety.

The Hermit smiled at the woe-begone figure as the cub scrambled upon the bank and stood limp and dripping, but safe. The next moment the smile froze upon his lips. Bearing down upon him was a whirlwind of blazing eyes and gaping mouth, propelled by the powerful muscles of a very big and very angry bear. Seeing the man, the bear at once became convinced that he was at the root of the trouble from which her cub had so narrowly escaped. So she charged, and the Hermit knew that one blow of her mighty paw would either crush him or whirl him into the current and over the falls.

He glanced swiftly about. A few yards away an overhanging bank offered the only possible hiding-place. It meant a ducking and perhaps worse, for even where he stood the current was strong. Nevertheless the Hermit did not hesitate. He turned toward the hiding-place and dived, swimming for a moment under water until he felt his fingers close upon something solid. Then, coming to the surface, he gave a sigh of relief. His dive had carried him beneath the overhanging bank and he was clutching a strong root which had forced its way through the mass of earth and so reached the air. He stood up to his armpits in the cold water, shivering, but glad to be alive, and glad, too, in spite of his predicament, that he had saved the cub.

Meanwhile, Mother Bruin stood bewildered at the sudden and complete disappearance of the enemy. Her rage evaporated before the mystery and she stood for several moments, staring at the spot where the man had vanished. The Hermit, however, was well hidden and would have escaped observation from keener eyes than those of a bear.

She soon turned to the cub which was whimpering miserably, and in drying his wet fur she forgot the man. They were joined by the other cub just as the Hermit peered out of his watery hiding-place. Finding them still in evidence he shook his fist belligerently at the old bear. He was careful to keep out of sight, however, and a short time later had the satisfaction of seeing them disappear in the woods, Mother Bruin in the lead and the cubs as usual trotting dutifully behind.

The male cub's thrilling ride and battle with the current had for the time being subdued his adventurous spirit. He was content to stand meekly by while his mother tore to pieces a rotting log, disclosing for them all a meal of ants and fat white grubs.



THE WHITE WOLF

The Little Vermilion, placid river of the plains, has its source in an ice-cold spring high up among the ledges of old Scarface where, after a sheer drop of fifty feet, the young river goes on its way a brawling, turbulent mountain stream. In a cave so close to the cataract that the entrance was often screened by a curtain of mist, a pair of wolf cubs first saw the light of day. It was a wild and savage spot for a home, one that befitted the mate of Gray Wolf, leader of the pack.

In their early infancy the cubs were appealing balls of gray down, rolling and tumbling about on the rocky floor of their cave much in the manner of young animals the world over. And, like other young animals, when they first essayed to walk, their legs had a treacherous way of doubling up beneath them and, without warning, letting them down on the hard floor of the cave. In a remarkably short time, however, they gained control over these unruly members and were ready to begin the training which would qualify them for membership in the pack.

From the first, one of the cubs gave promise of being no ordinary wolf. Long white hairs appeared among the down upon his back and sides, growing more and more numerous until, when the cub was half grown, they made a coat of pure white. The first time his mother returned from her hunting to see him standing in the sunlight at the mouth of the den, she stopped several yards away, looking at him keenly and half suspiciously. The moment he discovered her presence the cub ran to meet her with a glad whine of recognition and her look changed. From that time on, she accepted him without question.

The white cub grew fast, and as he grew, the wild and savage nature of his surroundings seemed to creep into his blood and become a part of him. His baby growl was drowned by the ceaseless roar of the falls, but as his voice grew stronger and fuller it took on the deep note of the cataract. Long before his brother, he learned to pounce upon the luckless grasshopper or cricket which appeared near the cave and to hold it down with his fore-paws while he crunched it with relish. From grasshoppers he progressed to mice, and from mice to rabbits, until he came to depend but little upon the spoils of the mother wolf's hunting.

One night, when he was little more than half grown, the cub awakened to find his mother absent at her hunting. The moonlight at the entrance to the cave called him and he trotted out. Save for the thunder of the falls, the night was very still. He stood upon the ledge before the cave, looking down upon the wilderness, mysterious and alluring in the moonlight, and the sight affected him strangely.

Suddenly there came to his ears a long-drawn howl. At the sound, indescribably lonely and wild, the hair rose upon the back of the young wolf and his eyes gleamed. It was the summons of the leader to the pack and, though the cub knew nothing of its meaning, his heart instinctively thrilled to it.

There was a moment of silence. Then, from far diverging points, the cry was taken up as the various members of the pack rallied to the call of their leader. The cub's heart swelled with a new and strange emotion. The next moment, high on his rocky ledge, he lifted his muzzle to the moon and sent out his own answer. The call was lost in the roar of the cataract, but from that night the white cub felt his kinship with the pack of which he was one day to become the leader.



Time passed, and the white cub was no longer a cub but a grown wolf, unexcelled for fleetness of foot and strength of muscle. His mother and the other cub had long since joined the pack, but for some reason the white wolf kept to himself. When the rallying call reached his ears on a still winter night, it ran like fire through his veins; yet he did not answer the call and morning invariably found him curled up in the old den, high on the shoulder of Scarface. Occasionally he was sighted by a lone hunter who returned to the settlements with tales of the great white wolf of the mountain, tales which grew from lip to lip until the animal had attained gigantic proportions. And still the white wolf traveled alone.

Then one night, when the wilderness lay in the merciless grip of winter, and famine stalked the trails, the white wolf joined the pack. It came about in this wise.

Gray Wolf, leader of the pack, had taken up the trail of a lynx. In an encounter between the two, the latter would scarcely have been a match for the big wolf; but it chanced that soon after Gray Wolf sprang to the attack, the mate of the lynx appeared and joined the fray. Thus the wolf became the victim of a double set of raking claws and sharp teeth. He fought savagely but the claws of the male lynx gashed him horribly from beneath, while its mate bit and tore from above.

The double punishment was too much for the wolf. Exhausted and bleeding, he raised his voice in the rallying call of the pack. As the call rang out over the silent wood the lynxes, knowing that they would soon be hopelessly outnumbered, sprang clear. With great leaps they vanished among the shadows of the forest, lost to sight even before the foremost wolf appeared.

Thus when the members of the pack had gathered, they found, not the game which they had anticipated, but only their leader, sorely wounded. The winter had been a hard one, with food unusually scarce. The gaunt bodies of the wolves gave evidence of their fast and their tempers had become very uncertain. Accordingly the sight and smell of blood, though that of one of their own number, almost drove them to a frenzy.

Gray Wolf, quickly perceiving the attitude of the pack, drew himself painfully to a sitting posture on a large flat rock and from this vantage point glared at his followers who had hitherto been obedient to his will. And though he was old and wounded, the pack quailed for a time before his glance. His advantage could not last, however. The others soon grew restless, the circle of dark forms tightening in a menacing way about the rock upon which the old leader crouched. Then a young wolf who had long chafed under the leadership of Gray Wolf, sprang for a throat hold.

Gray Wolf's mate was absent. There was none to defend him and, though he would not have given up easily, there could have been but one ending to the fight had not a strange interruption occurred. The young wolf was suddenly hurled backward as from a catapult, his neck being broken as he struck the ground, while upon the rock beside the old leader appeared a great white wolf, fangs bared and eyes glowing with savage fire. For a moment the pack stood aghast. Never had such a wolf been seen in all the Little Vermilion country. With tails between their legs they retreated to a safe distance where they paused, uncertain whether to stay or to flee.

The white wolf, however, turned scornfully from them and looked down at the wounded leader. Gray Wolf did not cower, nor did his staunch heart fail him. He tried to rise, but the movement started the flow of blood afresh and the next moment he sank back dead. The white wolf gazed at him; then, standing upon the rock, he raised his muzzle to the stars and sent out a long mournful howl which carried over miles of dark wilderness and seemed the very embodiment of the night and the solitude. Without a sound the pack slunk away, scattering to the four winds just as the first streaks of dawn appeared in the east.

A short time later the white wolf might have been seen before the entrance to his den, high among the ledges. He stood as if carved from the rock at his back, while the sky grew rosy with the gleams of the rising sun which drove the darkness before them and made rainbows of the mist that shrouded the cataract. Before the sun itself appeared above the horizon, the wolf had vanished into the dark cave.

Dusk of the following day found him once more abroad. He descended the mountain and swiftly threaded the wilderness until he came to the rock upon which Gray Wolf had perished. Here he stationed himself and as darkness fell, he proudly raised his head, sending out over the wilderness a full, deep-throated rallying-call, the like of which the forest had never known. Lesser creatures of the wilderness shivered with fear, cowering in their burrows for some time before daring to venture forth.

One of the lynxes which had so severely wounded the old leader heard the challenge and, though it struck fear into even his savage heart, he stole soundlessly forward until he could see the beast upon the rock. But at sight of the snow-white wolf he shrank back in utter terror and attempted to steal away.

Unfortunately for him the eyes of the white wolf had pierced his hiding-place and in a moment he was hurled from his feet by the force of the attack. The lynx fought but feebly, seemingly benumbed by the strange apparition, and in a few minutes his limp form was stretched upon the ground. As for his mate, she too cowered before the sight of the white wolf and fled afar, never to return. So was Gray Wolf avenged and his avenger, once more mounting the rock, sent his cry of victory echoing over the wilderness.

Now the wolves began to arrive, settling themselves in a ring about the great rock where the new leader stood silent, staring out over the heads of the pack. When all had arrived, as if at some signal they fell hungrily upon the body of the lynx which in a very short time was devoured. Only the big white wolf stood aloof.

Without question the pack accepted the new leadership. That same night they started northward, led by the white wolf, traveling always with the tireless lope which enables their kind to cover great distances. Thus they came out upon the edge of the barrens, a vast, treeless country which few care to penetrate during the snows of winter. Nothing moved in all its white expanse and the silence of death hung over it. Yet without hesitation the white wolf trotted out upon it and the pack followed, only a few hanging back in the shelter of the pines.

Ten minutes later the faith of the pack in their leader was justified. Not far away a gray blur drifted across their path and vanished, hidden by the curtain of snow which had begun to fall. It was a caribou herd, that drifting band which in midwinter is at once the hope and the despair of the larger flesh-eating animals. Wandering as they do at will, none can foretell their movements; yet the white wolf had led his pack unerringly through mile after mile of snowy forest, straight to the path of the herd.

The sight brought fresh courage to the famished wolves and they did not stop to question the wisdom or the instinct which had led them. They soon overtook the herd, but instead of charging into it, a proceeding which would have caused the caribou to bolt at a pace that would have left the wolves hopelessly behind, they followed silently and with apparent indifference. Nevertheless they kept a close watch upon the deer, singling out one who had been wounded before, and was showing signs of weakening. This animal soon lagged and was cunningly separated from the herd, thus falling an easy prey to the wolves. Another was treated in the same manner before the savage appetites were satisfied and the wolves turned back to the woods.

For a time good fortune seemed to travel with the pack, but, as February dragged by and gave place to March, the most bitter month of all in the wilderness, the wolves once more grew gaunt and famished. This time the white wolf led them, not to the far north, but to the south in the direction of the settlements.

Late afternoon of a bitter March day found Dave Lansing, hunter and trapper, returning from a trip to the nearest town after supplies. He was plodding along the snowy trail, his eyes upon the ground and his thoughts far afield, when a distant, long-drawn howl caused him to raise his head. Dave knew that howl. It was the call of a wolf and, though armed, it filled him with uneasiness. He did not believe that the wolves would attack a man in daylight, but night was coming rapidly and he was some miles from his cabin. For a moment he considered turning back and spending the night with the Hermit, but his heart revolted at the thought. Dave was never one to show the white feather and he pushed resolutely on, though he quickened his steps.

For a time the woods were very still. With his cabin almost within sight, the trapper had begun to breathe more freely when suddenly the howl was repeated, this time so close that he stopped in dismay. A moment later he saw them coming, flitting silently along his trail or from tree to tree, like gray shadows of the coming night.

There would not be time to reach his cabin. Muttering angrily, Dave kicked off his snowshoes and drew himself into the branches of the nearest tree. He was just in time, for he had scarcely drawn up his feet when the pack closed in. His snowshoes were quickly demolished while the man could only look on, angry but helpless. Then the wolves sat down in a circle in the snow and looked hungrily up at him.

"Yes, look at me!" Dave remarked, shaking his fist at the pack. "Think you've got me, don't you? Well, you just wait."

He brought his ever-ready rifle into position and looked about for the leader, thinking that if he could be killed, the pack would disband. For a time he hesitated, unable to determine which wolf it might be; then he stared, forgetting his discomfort in his astonishment. Among the pack had suddenly appeared a snow-white wolf, the like of which the trapper, in all his years in the wilderness, had never beheld, though it was said that a tribe of them was to be found in the far north. Here was the white wolf about whom so many stories had been told, stories to which he had listened unbelieving.

For a moment he could only stare in admiration at the powerful animal; then the hunter's instinct asserted itself and he fired. So quickly did the wolf swerve that the eye of the hunter could not perceive the movement. Dave only knew that he had missed, he, the best marksman in all the Little Vermilion country! Again he fired, but the bullet embedded itself harmlessly in a tree.

This was too much for the hunter. Here was no wolf. He felt sure that the bullets had reached their mark, yet the beast was unharmed. Dave was a mighty hunter but, like most ignorant people, he was superstitious. He had often heard tales of the loup-garou, or witch wolf, whom no bullet could kill. With a hand that trembled slightly he laid his gun across his knees, deciding not to waste his bullets.

He had settled himself for a long cold wait in his tree when, without a sound, the white wolf turned and trotted swiftly away into the forest, the whole pack following. The trapper stared after them, unable to believe his eyes. Fearing an ambush, he waited for some time; then as the wolves did not reappear, he lowered himself cautiously from the tree and set out once more for his cabin, minus his snowshoes and greatly perplexed at the mystery. Dave could not know that the keener nose of the white wolf had scented a deer at no great distance and so had led the pack to the safer game.

Now began a time of annoyance for the farmers at the borders of the wilderness. Sheep and pigs were killed and devoured, and now and then a cow. Many had seen the wolf pack and a few had glimpsed the big white leader, but, although scores of shots had been fired, apparently none had reached the mark. So the fame of the white wolf grew, and many, like Dave Lansing, were inclined to the belief that the leader at least was gifted with supernatural powers. Traps and poison, no matter how cleverly concealed, he uncovered or avoided with an uncanny wisdom, while he continued to take toll of the farmers' flocks and herds.

The Hermit in his lonely cabin heard the tales, which lost nothing in the telling, and though he knew them to be greatly exaggerated, he wished ardently for a sight of the big wolf. The beast's cunning and courage had aroused his admiration. Pal was kept strictly within bounds, and when his master went into the woods he carried a weapon which, however, would never be used save in self-defense.

One day the Hermit's wish was granted and he came face to face with the white wolf not far from the clearing. The beast suddenly appeared among the trees, not many paces distant, and the two stood staring curiously at each other. The Hermit made no move to draw his gun and the wolf, on his part, seemed to know that no harm was intended, for he showed no sign either of fear or antagonism. He stood for a long minute gravely regarding the man; then he turned and trotted away without a backward glance and with no sign of haste. The Hermit did not know that for days the wolf had secretly followed him and found him to be harmless.

Spring came at last, and when the snow had given place to the new, eager life of the forest, and food was once more abundant, the pack turned northward to the wilds. It was never seen again, but the fame of the big white wolf lived in the minds of the farmers, and stories of his prowess and cunning were handed down long after the wolf had passed to the Happy Hunting Grounds of his tribe.

THE END

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[Trasncriber's Note: In the original edition, each picture's caption was clearly identified in the List of Illustrations, though the pictures in the text only included the caption with the picture when a full-page image was used. In this e-text, the captions assigned in the original have been included with each image.]

THE END