“I wish it would. Then I’d know what it is. And whatever it is, the animal in there can’t be much bigger than a rabbit. The hole isn’t wide enough.”
“Maybe it is a rabbit.” Gretchen came nearer.
“Did you ever hear a rabbit make a noise like that?” Dorothy’s tone was disdainful.
“Then—maybe it’s a wildcat!” said Gretchen fearfully.
“Well, if it is, it’s a small one. Here, puss—puss. The silly thing is too far in to reach. She just blinks at me.”
“Perhaps she’s hurt and crawled in there to die, Dorothy.”
“Aren’t you cheerful! She probably crawled in there to get out of the storm, and is half-frozen, poor thing.”
“Well, I don’t know what we’re going to do about it,” sighed Gretchen, still keeping her distance.
Once more the low moan came from the log, but now that the end was free from snow, the sound was much clearer.
“That’s no wildcat, either!” Dorothy twisted her head, first to the right, then to the left, in an attempt to get a better light on the log’s occupant. “There’s too much of a whine in that cry. The thing’s probably a young fox. How does one call a fox, Gretchen? I’m hanged if I know.”