Hare built a fire under a sheltering pine where no snow covered the soft
mat of needles, and while Mescal dried the blankets and roasted the last
portion of meat he made a wind-break of spruce boughs. When they had
eaten, not forgetting to give Wolf a portion, Hare fed Silvermane the
last few handfuls of grain, and tied him with a long halter on the grassy
bank. The daylight failed and darkness came on apace. The old familiar
roar of the wind in the pines was disturbing; it might mean only the lull
and crash of the breaking night-gusts, and it might mean the north wind,
storm, and snow. It whooped down the hollow, scattering the few
scrub-oak leaves; it whirled the red embers of the fire away into the
dark to sputter in the snow, and blew the burning logs into a white glow.
Mescal slept in the shelter of the spruce boughs with Wolf snug and warm
beside her. Hare stretched his tired limbs in the heat of the blaze.
When he awakened the fire was low and he was numb with cold. He took
care to put on logs enough to last until morning; then he lay down once
more, but did not sleep. The dawn came with a gray shade in the forest;
it was a cloud, and it rolled over him soft, tangible, moist, and cool,
and passed away under the pines.
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