The outlook was really serious. Old Bald Face
had not only lost his smile--a marvelously happy
one with the early sun upon his wrinkled countenance
--but he had put on his judgment-cap of gray
clouds and had begun to thunder out his disapproval
of everything about him. Moose Hillock evidently
heard the challenge, for he was answering back in
the murky darkness. Soon a cold, raw wind, which
had been asleep in the hills for weeks, awoke with
a snarl and started down the gorge. Then the little
leaves began to quiver, the big trees to groan, in their
anxiety not knowing what the will of the wind would
be, and the merry little waves that had chased each
other all the morning over the sunny shallows of the
brook, grew ashy pale as they looked up into the angry
face of the Storm-God, and fled shivering to the
shore.

Oliver whipped out his knife, stripped the heavy
outer bark from a white birch, and before the dashing
rain could catch up with the wind, had repaired
the slant so as to make it water-tight--Hank had
taught him this--then he started another great fire
in front of the slant and threw fresh balsam boughs
on the bed that had rested Hank's tired limbs, and
he and Margaret crept in and were secure.

The equanimity of Margaret's temper, temporarily
disturbed by her vivid misconception of Kennedy