When the summer came there was another den
on the high hill overlooking the harbor, where the little brown cubs
could look down with wonder at the shining sea and the slow
fishing-boats and the children playing on the shore; but the wolves
whose trail began there were far away over the mountains, following
their own ways, waiting for the crisp hunting cry that should bring them
again together.
_Trails that Cross in the Snow_
"Are we lost, little brother?" said Mooka, shivering.
No need of the question, startling and terrible as it was from the lips
of a child astray in the vast solitudes; for a great gale had swooped
down from the Arctic, blotting out in clouds of whirling snow the world
of plain and mountain and forest that, a moment before, had stretched
wide and still before the little hunters' eyes.
For an hour or more, running like startled deer, they had tried to
follow their own snow-shoe trail back over the wide barrens into the
friendly woods; but already the snow had filled it brim full, and
whatever faint trace was left of the long raquettes was caught up by the
gale and whirled away with a howl of exultation.
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