Joe worked willingly, happily, for this was work he liked. But within him was again a mighty restlessness and he kept his face turned to the south wind. Every tiny variation in it became almost a personal issue, for they had set out from Missouri to build a new life in Oregon and nothing must interfere. When the snow melted grass would grow, and the snow would melt if the south wind blew. As soon as there was enough grass they could be on their way. Near where they were working, a group of quaking aspens, their trunks and branches already colored with spring's green hue, trembled in the wind. A hare hopped among them, crouched at the base of a tree and sat perfectly still. A happy canine grin on his face, ears pricked up, Mike ran through the soggy snow to give chase and the two disappeared. Snedeker rested his ax on a log. "Wish I'd kep' count of the piddlin' little critters that dog of your'n has took after, Joe. He has done naught else sinst you fetched him here." "He's been chasing them all the way from Missouri," Joe said. "The darn dog's probably run far enough to get him to Oregon and back six times over. But he hasn't caught anything yet." "That don't stop his tryin'," Snedeker grunted. "Puts me in mind of a trapper I knowed. He ketched more beaver'n anybody elst, an' when nobody in the hul show could find buffalo, he could. But what he wanted was a white b'ar. The place was thick with 'em, but his medicine wasn't right for white b'ar. Ever'body elst run on 'em, but not Piegan Kelley. Got so he'd rush through his traps, skin out his pelts, an' rush off to find a white b'ar. Finally he found one. B'ar found him the same time. When I come up the b'ar was layin' dead as a stone an' Piegan was almost so. But he was grinnin' like a coyote that just ketched an antelope kid. 'Got my b'ar,' says he to me, I can die happy now.' He did, too. That's the way 'twill be with your dog." The aspen branches rattled more violently. Joe looked toward them. Quaking aspen quivered even when all other trees were still, and Joe had never known why. "Why do aspens shake, Jim?" he asked. "They're soft. I figger their branches ain't tight's other trees." "That isn't the reason at all," Ellis dissented. "The Cross on which Christ was crucified was made of aspen, and since then all aspens have trembled." "Whar'd you l'arn that?" Snedeker demanded. "I'm just naturally smart. Besides, I saw it in a book." "Book l'arnin'," Snedeker pronounced gravely, "don't do nobody no good. Gives 'em fancy ideas in a plain kentry. You ought to tell the missus that, Joe." Joe grinned. Emma had been teaching Tad and baby Emma the fundamentals of English, arithmetic, and spelling. It had helped her pass the time and, in spite of Snedeker's ideas on the subject, it would help the youngsters too. "Your freckle-faced young 'un's comin'," Snedeker said.