remained solemnly to watch the working of the white man's law that
compelled a man to dance upon the air.



BROWN WOLF



SHE had delayed, because of the dew-wet grass, in order to put on
her overshoes, and when she emerged from the house found her
waiting husband absorbed in the wonder of a bursting almond-bud.
She sent a questing glance across the tall grass and in and out
among the orchard trees.

"Where's Wolf?" she asked.

"He was here a moment ago." Walt Irvine drew himself away with a
jerk from the metaphysics and poetry of the organic miracle of
blossom, and surveyed the landscape. "He was running a rabbit the
last I saw of him."

"Wolf! Wolf! Here Wolf!" she called, as they left the clearing
and took the trail that led down through the waxen-belled manzanita
jungle to the county road.

Irvine thrust between his lips the little finger of each hand and
lent to her efforts a shrill whistling.

She covered her ears hastily and made a wry grimace.