The resurrection came swiftly. Grass sprouted and flowers shoved forth their buds, some of them poking out their hardy blossoms at the edges of the drifts in the twilight of the woods. But the real and certain arrival of spring was announced by the yellowbelly whistlers. They awoke and came out of their dens to blink at the sun. They romped across the bare meadow and bounded among the rocks at the base of the castles. A day or so after the whistlers had come out the calico chips appeared. They had been ready for some time but had been careful not to hurry. One day the chipmunks appeared. They held a concert at once, and the meadow rang with their “chock, chocking.” The fat little brownies came with the chipmunks. They selected stones and spent much of their time sitting in silence looking down into the blue valley. Only the cabin at the edge of the timber remained lifeless and dead. It went on sleeping. Its one dusty window stared out drearily on the lively scene. Its door did not open to let the spring air into the cabin, there was no one to open it. The willow chair sagged beside the doorstone. It sat there much as though it had stepped outside to wait for the owner of the cabin. Midnight became restless. He raced around the meadow and mud flew from his hoofs as he splashed through puddles in the hollows. The only spot he avoided was the dog town. There the ground was soft and the holes made it treacherous. The dogs barked and scolded when he thundered past but they accepted him as one of them. He whinnied and kicked and pranced. The old whistler, perched on his high lookout, stretched his neck, chuckled several times, then pulled his head back into his ball of fur. Midnight still used the shelter under the rim. Habit made him return to it at dusk. The old timber-line buck knocked off his remaining horn, then wandered into the twilight of the spruce and did not come out again. He would seek a sun-drenched glade where he could nurse his new antlers through the period when they were in the velvet. In a short time nubbins of furry, blood-filled soft horns would appear, rising from the scars of his old spread. During this time the monarch would be quiet and shy. He would not fight and he would avoid charges which would take him into the timber. Midnight was climbing the ledge trail one night when he was faced by a strange and terrible creature. A great silvertip, with the sleep of winter still dulling his little eyes, came shambling down the narrow ledge. He was gaunt and in a savage mood. Midnight had come to consider this as his own trail. He had met the wolf pack almost on the spot where he now stood. He snorted and reared on his hind feet. The old silvertip kept on shambling toward him. Midnight laid back his ears and squealed. The ledge was too narrow to turn about easily, and it was his ledge.