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Updated: May 28, 2025
She hummed some broken baby song, And talked to herself as she trudged along: She feared no failure, recked no wrong, But she thought that the way was lone and long. Tired and cold, she lingered to rest Under a snow-drift's treacherous crest: She cuddled herself in a tiny nest, White and cold as her mother's breast. They found her there on the snowy ground, Her silky hair with snowflakes crowned.
The Colonel stood stock-still waiting for the Boy. For the first time in many days even he hung back. He seemed to lack the courage to be the one to extinguish hope by the mere drawing of a curtain from a snow-drift's face. The Kentuckian pulled himself together and went forward. He lifted his hand to the deerskin, but his fingers shook so he couldn't take hold: "Hello!" he called. No sound.
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