At last the snow fell; deep and soft it covered over the hill with a white, thick blanket. Yet beneath the blanket worked and travelled Star Nose. All winter long his trails ran just beneath the deep snow and in the spring, when the ground became bare once more, one is able to see all these blind trails for oneself. The first warm sun shone out at last. It was the beginning of the spring thaws; then the snow blanket upon the hill began to grow thinner each day. Already the great snowy owl had begun to think about a nest, and certain of the fur tribes had ventured to come out, at least upon sunny days, for they were terribly hungry after their long winter sleep.
Right out upon the white snow crust finally crept Star Nose, the mole. At first the glare almost blinded him, he had stayed so long under ground; besides, he loved night best of all. However, he liked to feel the grateful sun warming his back, so there he lay, a soft, blind, stupid bunch of fur, out in plain sight upon the white snow. A long, slim figure, fur-clad, all in white, excepting the tip of its tail, which was brown, came mincing along, picking its way warily over the snow, craning its long neck and peering, first to this side then the other. Over the little snow hummocks it crept, its crafty yellow eyes searching everywhere for food. This was just Kagax, the weasel, wearing his winter coat of white fur, which did not show against the snow, and Kagax was glad, for he was very, very hungry. He spied the little grey heap of fur upon the snow, saw Star Nose huddled there, covering his blinded eyes from the glare, and instantly he pounced upon him, and carried him off.
So this was the end, finally, of Star Nose, the cruel, crafty old hermit mole; such a fierce creature that even his own relatives feared him. And now his fine, secret chambers which he worked so long building, and all his subway passages are vacant, temporarily. But I dare say by spring some of the shrew family will move into his old home.
CHAPTER IX
THE LOYALTY OF SILVER WING, THE GULL
Far out on the bosom of the wide ocean lay Lonely Island, a small, rock-bound hummock of sand against which the breakers roared and dashed furiously. So wild and barren was the spot that no one visited it, for no human being could live there; nothing throve but rank grasses and stunted beech plum shrubs. Over upon the south side of the island were steep ledges, shelving down into deep water, and this spot alone was never lonely or still, because it was inhabited by thousands of screaming water-fowl.
Down between the cliffs in the lowliest tenements dwelt the snipe and petrel families, the latter seldom at home except during their nesting season. Along the shelf-like places of the rocks above dwelt the gannets, the terns and all other tribes belonging to the gull family. High up in their home crannies the sea birds could always catch the pearly shimmer of the breaking of an approaching school of herrings, even before they reached the line of tossing foam below. Then, swift and sure, they would dart out to meet them. It was wonderful to watch the herring gulls at their fishing, now skimming low over giant, green waves, now sinking into the trough of the sea. Then, with a sudden swift splash of feathery spray, behold the sharp-eyed gull secures the fish and is back again in his own nest upon the cliff. Strangely enough, although the cliff was swarmed with other gull families, each cranny bearing its nest looking precisely like another, never did a returning gull make a mistake or intrude upon another family.
For many seasons the gulls and their kindred had nested upon Lonely Island, but one year hunters discovered their retreat, and set up a temporary camp upon the barren sands. They had come to hunt for terns, killing and slaughtering them by hundreds, just for the sake of their beautiful, delicate feathers for which they were to be paid much money. Finally the hunters abandoned the island, leaving behind them many wounded, besides scores of deserted young birds, not out of the pin-feather age, who would finally pine and die alone upon the lonely ledges, when the parent birds failed to come back to feed them.
For a season, fear and chaos reigned among the gull settlements. Day after day the frightened sea fowl circled wildly about their cliffs, their weird, lonely calls alone breaking the silence, ringing even above the noise of the breakers below them. So many of the colonies were broken up and disturbed that they flew off in detached numbers, perhaps seeking some safer retreat inland.
High up, perched upon one of the topmost crags of Lonely Island, sat all alone a solitary gull. Below, within sight, upon a shelf-like rock, a smaller bird, his mate, sat disconsolately upon the very edge of her dismantled nest, unwilling to tear herself away from two featherless young gulls, her babies, who would never stretch out their long necks to her for food again. They were limp and dead—the hunters had wantonly thrown down loose rocks and broken up the nest.