SANCTUARY 197 



Night was over, and the gentle fingers of dawn 

 stirred the forest into hfe. 



One by one the stars, marguerites in a sea of 

 ultramarine, went out, and little filmy clouds, 

 crimson and rose, golden and blue, banked the 

 horizon. In the transparency of the atmosphere 

 the trees, in fretted silhouette, stood gaunt and 

 desolate, and down the trail the vaporous night 

 mists tiptoed before the wind swinging down from 

 the ice-bound mountain-tops. 



It blew the snow in powdery whiteness over the 

 body of the moose as he lay at the closed door of 

 the shack, with his breath frozen on his lips, and 

 tiny icicles clinging to the splendid tassel of hair 

 below his swelling throat. 



A gust of wind, stronger than all that had 

 blown before, shook the door. The stove-pipe, 

 resigning duty suddenly, slid from its place on the 

 roof-top and crashed down on to the drooped head 

 of the sleeping moose, wakening him with a start. 

 He was on his feet instantly, looking about him in 

 a haze of sleep, with every nerve taut for immediate 

 flight. 



Tense and rigid, he stood for a moment as 

 though carved in stone, holding his rounded nose 



