“THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE”’ 31 
He was without any companions now, any sense 
of the comfort and protection of the pack. And 
what would he do when the snows began to soften, 
when the south wind came through the forests 
and a warm mist gathered around the mountain 
tops, and that great longing for a mate came over 
him? 
At last, up here on the ridges, three thousand 
feet above the sea, what was rain in the valleys 
was snow that settled over the rocks and sifted 
down out of a cloud through the trees. The 
north wind blew cold, and Swiftfoot was filled 
with restlessness again, the wanderlust was upon 
him. He would go on, and on, until he found 
some other pack he could join. Perhaps because 
it had become a habit, perhaps because he knew 
the way was so long back to the northland he had 
come from, across the great river, he turned 
southward once more. 
For many nights he traveled, keeping always 
to the cover of the forests and ridges. Now and 
then he had to cross a road, but for a long distance 
he was practically in wilderness. ‘Then, one 
moonlight night, he came upon a broad road, run- 
