1 66 Ways of Wood Folk. 



I carried him in and warmed him at the fire, but 

 it was too late. He had been drunk once too often. 

 When I saw that he was dead, I stowed him away in 

 the nest he had been seeking when he fell out into 

 the snow. I tried to read ; but the book seemed dull. 

 Every little while I got up to look at him, lying there 

 with his little pointed face, still dead. At last I 

 wrapped him up, and pushed him farther in, out of 

 sight. 



All the while the empty tumbler seemed to look 

 at me reproachfully from the window sill. 



