stump, its little snowcap perched upon its rim.  He lifted the 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 caught it just before it went out.  The sound was now clearer.  Was that the crunch of feet upon the snow?  Yes, he heard it plainly.  A twig snapped somewhere back of the big rock, then another, then another.  There was an answering of the whine.  He felt for his pocket ax; but, alas! it was at the cabin—­he had no weapon, not even a jack knife.  Why had Ham taken the shovel with him?  Pshaw! was it really a sound at all, or was he still