Way-Atcha, the Coon—-Raccoon 
across the snow to follow each convenient log as a 
sort of sidewalk. They were large animals—that 
is, larger than a Fox—of thick form, with bushy 
tails on which the keen night eyes of a passing Owl 
could see the dark bars, the tribal flag of their kind. 
The leader was smaller than the other, and at 
times showed a querulous impatience, a disposition 
to nip at the big one following, and yet seemed not 
to seek escape. The big one came behind with 
patient forbearance. The singing woodsman, had 
he seen them, would have understood: these were 
mates. Obedient to the animal rule, all arrange- 
ments for the coming brood were in the mother’s 
control. She must go forth to seek the nursing 
den; she must know the very time; she alone is 
pilot of this cruise. He is there merely to fight in 
case they meet some foe. 
Down through the alder thicket by the stream 
and underbrush, and on till they reached the great 
stretch of timber that was left because the land was 
low and poor. Much of it was ancient growth, and 
the Coon-Raccoon—the mother soon to be—passed 
quickly from one great trunk to another, seeking, 
seeking—what? 
The woodsman knows that a hollow pine is rare, 
a hollow maple often happens, and a hollow bass- 
wood is the rule. He might have found the har- 
gr 
