Four remained, the rest trailed off to a little grove of young firs and cut themselves branches to drive snowbirds with.  Then up the slope they went, winding in and out among the tall, silent trees, over snowy logs and around great, jutting boulders, until the top was reached.  Then they hurried along the narrow ridge until it ended in a stone cliff.  Here they descended again through the trees until the trail on the south side was reached.  Ham picked out an open place entirely surrounded with a heavy growth of young firs.  Just at the edge of the little opening, its bulk back in the trees, stood a great stone, twelve or fifteen feet in height.  Here Ham began to dig the pit for Sleepy’s feet, explaining, as he worked, that the rock would reflect the light and keep the wind from blowing it out.  Every hunter spoke in subdued whispers.  When the hole was finished, Sleepy stepped into it, and Ham shoveled in the dirt and snow and tramped it tight about him in order to make room for the bag.  It was fastened to each leg by a stout cord.  Ham gave the parting instructions.

“Light your candle when we get out of hearing, then move it gently back and forth in front of your bag.  The first few birds that come will probably scare you, but remember they are only snowbirds and harmless.”

The party then separated, filing off in either direction, and were soon swallowed up in the long black shadows.  All that Sleepy could hear was the crunching of feet on the partly-crusted snow.  He waited nearly breathlessly for all sound to cease, and when the last faint echo had died away it was a very shaky hand that lighted the first match.  Of course Sleepy was not frightened—­he was only cold!  The greasy tip of the new candle sputtered and flared a moment, then went out.  He tried again, but this time the match broke off.  He felt himself getting excited.  He had just two matches left.  He must be extremely careful.  He struck the third match on the stone behind him and shaded the candle tip with his hand; but his whole body was so nervous and his hands shook so that he could hardly hold candle and match together long enough to get the light.  At last he succeeded.  He stuck the end of the candle in the snow in front of him while he turned up his collar and pulled his cap down tighter.  What was that?  His body became rigid, his head went up, his eyes flashed.  Was it the snowbirds?  He listened intently for an instant, then he quietly relaxed.  “Just the kids whacking the brush, I guess,” he said, half-aloud.  Then he leaned his back against his rock and waited.  Every few moments he would gaze cautiously about him, then listen.  Here and there back in the shadows he could see a huddled group of pale, straight forms.  He knew they were only aspen trees, still he kept a watchful eye on them.  The night was absolutely quiet and dark except for long, dimly-lighted alleys between the trees, where the candle rays were frolicking.  Here and there he could see the dim outline of a black