The old beavers increased their efforts. Helped by a brood of youngsters, they cut trees and peeled bark from early morning until late at night. They had long since ceased to worry about being about by daylight. The seclusion of the little meadow had changed their habits a great deal. Their storehouses were bulging but they worked feverishly anyway, as though they were facing a famine period. And they built houses over the land openings where their runways came to the surface of the meadow, tall piles of mud and sticks, laced together and padded down into a tough, warm masonry which would keep out the biting frosts of winter. Midnight watched them lazily. He could not know they were expecting another hard winter. But he did have an uneasy feeling when the first frosts came. The wild strain in his blood stirred and he would have left the high country had he been free to go. One morning he trotted to the edge of the meadow and found it white with glistening frost. The white carpet disturbed him. He rushed to the edge of the crevice and stood there snorting and pawing. But he did not try the long jump. The frosts deepened. The aspen leaves swirled down to cover the roots, the bulbs and the seeds bedded under the soft loam. The grass turned brown and the big spruce trees standing close to the wall moaned as a cold wind swept down from the new snow fields high on the barren peaks of the Crazy Kills. The haze of an Indian summer day was swept away by the first snow of winter and again the world turned white and the air became snapping cold. Midnight put on his heavy robe of shaggy hair which turned the sharp blasts whirling downward. The snow deepened and Midnight dug for grass. He moved his bedground to a needle-padded spot under a giant spruce where the snow never fell. Now he was interested only in a battle to keep his belly filled. He was still growing and his body demanded food for new muscles and sinews as well as for warmth. The storms came and the snow on the meadow became deeper and deeper. The mesa above was lashed by bitter winds but the sheltered meadow did not feel their lash. On its surface the snow settled down in loose, deep smoothness which formed a warm blanket for the grass and the flowers. Great drifts formed along the rim above, fanned out by the wind and the drifting snow on the upper bench. Their white lips thrust far out over the edge of the canyon like the rounded curves of giant mushrooms.