The last one to speak was Rabbit.

Clothed in his fur of the color of stubble and earth he seemed like a
god of the fields. In the midst of the wintry waste he was like a clod
of earth of the summer time. He made one think of a road-mender or
a rural postman. Tucked up in the windings of his flapping ears he
carried with himself the agitation of all sounds. One of the ears,
extended toward the ground, listened to the crackling of the frost,
while the other, open to the distance, gathered in the blows of an axe
with which the dead forest resounded.

"Surely, Oh Francis," he said, "I can be satisfied with the mossgrown
bark which has grown tender beneath the caress of the snows and which
wintry dawns have made fragrant. More than once have I satisfied
my hunger with it during these disastrous days when the briars have
turned into rose-colored crystals, and when the agile wagtail utters
its shrill cry toward the larvae which its beak can no longer reach
beneath the ice along the banks. I shall continue to gnaw these barks.
For, Oh Francis, I do not wish to die with these gentle friends who
are in their agony, but rather I wish to live beside you and obtain my
sustenance from the bitter fiber of the trees."

* * * * *

Therefore because the country of each of them was a different land
where each could dwell only by himself, Rabbit's companions chose not
to separate, but to die together in this land harrowed by winter.

One evening the doves which had become like dead leaves fell from the
branch on which they were perched, and the wolf closed his eyes on