CHAPTER VII

THE SNOWHOUSE BABY

There had been a film of glass-clear ice that morning all round the
shores of Silverwater. It had melted as the sun climbed high into the
bland October blue; but in the air remained, even at midday, a crispness,
a tang, which set the Child's blood tingling. He drew the spicy breath
of the spruce forests as deep as possible into his little lungs, and
outraged the solemn silences with shouts and squeals of sheer ecstasy,
which Uncle Andy had not the heart to suppress. Then, all at once, he
remembered what the thrilling air, the gold and scarlet of the trees, the
fairy ice films, the whirr of the partridge wings, and the sharp cries of
the bluejays all meant. It meant that soon Uncle Andy would take him
back to town, the cabin under the hemlock would be boarded up. Bill the
Guide would go off to the lumber camps beyond the Ottanoonsis, and
Silverwater would be left to the snow and the solitude of winter. His
heart tightened with homesickness. Yet, after all, he reflected, during
the months of cold his beloved Silverwater would be none too friendly a
place, especially to such of the little furred and feathered folk as were
bold enough to linger about its shores. He shivered as he thought of the
difference winter must make to all the children of the wild.

"Why so solemn all of a sudden?" asked Uncle Andy, eyeing him
suspiciously. "I thought a minute ago you'd take the whole roof off the
forest an' scare the old bull moose across the lake into shedding his new
antlers."

"I was just thinking," answered the Child.