Outside the wind still howled and drove the flying snow against the windows with fierce energy, but inside the cabin was warm and cozy. They had been reading for the better part of two hours, stopping only to replenish the fire as the logs burned away, leaving a thick bed of glowing embers.
“I say, Bob, who is the funniest writer you know of?” Jack asked, looking up from his book.
“James Whitcomb Riley,” Bob replied after a moment’s thought. “Why?”
“Oh, nothing, only you’re wrong. He was funny all right, but you see the man who wrote this poem Snow Bound, which I’ve been reading, was ‘Whittier.’”
Bob caught up a sofa cushion and was about to hurl it at his brother, when suddenly he paused, holding the cushion in the air.
“Listen,” he cried.
Slowly the hand holding the cushion dropped to his side and both strained their ears.
“What was it?” Jack asked, after a moment’s pause.
“I thought I heard a cry,” Bob replied, still listening. “But I guess I was mistaken,” he added, as he picked up his book from the floor where it had fallen.
But he had hardly started reading again when he sprang to his feet and, rushing to the door, flung it wide open.