"I want to get him away."
He turned a searching, quietly analytic gaze upon Thoreau to see whether
the Frenchman would understand without further explanation.
The fox breeder picked up the empty gunny sack.
"We will begin to pack the sledge, _mon Pere_. There must be a good
hundred pounds to the dog."
As they turned back to the cabin Father Roland cast a look over his
shoulder to see whether David was returning.
Three or four hundred yards in the forest David stood in a mute and
increasing wonder. He was in a tiny open, and about him the spruce and
balsam hung still as death under their heavy cloaks of freshly fallen
snow. It was as if he had entered unexpectedly into a wonderland of
amazing beauty, and that from its dark and hidden bowers, crusted with
their glittering mantles of white, snow naiads must be peeping forth at
him, holding their breath for fear of betraying themselves to his eyes.
There was not the chirp of a bird nor the flutter of a wing--not the
breath of a sound to disturb the wonderful silence. He was encompassed
in a white, soft world that seemed tremendously unreal--that for some
strange reason made him breathe very softly, that made him stand without
a movement, and made him listen, as though he had come to the edge of
the universe and that there were mysterious things to hear, and possibly
to see, if he remained very quiet.
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