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It is hope come again, the joy of living undreamed of except by such highly strung, nerve-tingling, wild-blooded creatures as these; and in some measure at least it is the escape from Fear. For there is no other name than Fear for the great, white, merciless winter that had just departed. High and low, every woods creature knows this dread, this age-old apprehension of the deepening snow.
Remembering his first trip, long ago, from the Moon to Mars, he knew how gentle the Big Vacuum could sometimes seem, with just a skin of stellene between it and himself. Home was a plain longing, too, in the hard, level eyes around him. Love. Well, wasn't that part of the first item he had tagged? Wanderlust. The adventurous distance drive part of any wild-blooded vagabond male.
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