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Updated: May 12, 2025
In the heart of an almost impenetrable thicket of young firs the rabbit had crouched all night, sometimes sleeping the light sleep of the woodsfolk, sometimes listening to the swish of the winter rain on his roof of branches. In spite of the storm, he had been warm and dry all night, only a big drop coming through from time to time to make him shift his couch.
Answering the glance, the woodsman muttered "old tree fallin'," and resumed his passive contemplation of the sticks glowing keenly in the fire. The Boy, upon whom, as soon as he entered the wilderness, the taciturnity of the woodsfolk descended as a garment, said nothing, but scanned his companion's gaunt face with a gravely incredulous smile.
From the river the woodsfolk were but an occasional glimpse, the stir of a thicket on the bank: here they were living, breathing realities, vivid pictures perfectly framed by the frosty green of the spruce. From the first mile these two riders were the best of companions. They talked gaily, their voices carrying to each other with entire ease through the still glades.
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