its little snowcap perched upon its rim. He lifted the candle from its place in the snow and waved it gently before the bag, then he paused cautiously. His imagination had rallied from the cold and was now his closest companion. He saw strange shapes flitting here and there among the shadows. He heard every now and then a new, strange voice of the woods. The trees, it seemed to him, were murmuring their disapproval of such things as snowbird hunts. A myriad of unseen folk were peeping at him from limb and stump and shadow. He knew they were there, even if he couldn't see them, yet a strong feeling of loneliness crept over him. It seemed ages since the boys had left him there, still it had been only a few moments. His spirit was gradually becoming restless, and he began to wonder if there really were any such things as snowbirds, after all. He wished he was back again in the cabin by the fire. If he thought they were playing a joke on him, he would slip back to the cabin and fool them. He had half a notion to do it anyway. What was the use of his standing there? Which way was the cabin? He sighed and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. It was just over there, wasn't it? No, that couldn't be. It must be over yonder. The trail ran through the grove to his right. That couldn't be, the stream was over there, for he heard it every now and then. He began talking half-aloud. "If the stream is over there, the cabin is over here." He paused and drew his hand across his eyes. "No, no, if that were true, the stream would flow uphill, and, of course, it doesn't."