A Cry in the Wilderness

by Mary E. Waller

We watched them. Mr. Ewart paid no heed to them. They heeled along in the passageway almost on their bellies when he took his fur coat from the hook. He had another on his arm which he held open for me.

"I really am warmly enough dressed," I said.

"I don't doubt it—for now; but you 'll be grateful enough to me three hours later for insisting on your wearing it—in with you!" He moved a dog or two from under his feet, gently but forcibly with the tip of his boot; whereupon they literally crawled on the floor.

"If you don't mind, Cale,"—he spoke purposely in a low monotone, but with a look of amusement,—"if you don't mind having the dogs in with you under the robes on the front seat, I 'm willing to have them go, but I don't want them to run with the pung."

I noticed no movement on the part of the dogs except an intense quivering of the whole body. One who does not understand doghood might have fancied they were shivering at the prospect of the eighteen-mile drive in the cold.

"I ain't no objection," said Cale; "the fact is there ain't no better foot-warmer 'n a dog on a cold night, an' I was goin' ter ask if I could n't have the loan of one of 'em fer ter-night."

"Well, they can all go—"

The last word was drowned in a chaos of frantically joyous barks. They leaped on him, caressed him, stood up with their forepaws stemmed on the breast of his fur coat, licked his boots, his hands, and attempted his face—but of that he would have none.

"Be still now—and come on, comrades!" he said. The four made a mad but silent rush for the door. Cale gave them right of way; Pierre swore great French oaths wholly disproportionate to the occasion, for the outrush of the dogs caused the French coach horses to plunge only twice. At last we were in—the dogs in front with Cale, and Mr. Ewart and I on the back seat, so muffled in furs, fur robes, fur caps, coats and mittens, that we humans were scarce to be distinguished from our canine neighbors.

We no longer used the frozen creek for a crossing, but drove a mile up the road to the highroad bridge. The night was very cold. The moon had not yet risen. The stars shone with Arctic splendor. Cale drove us rapidly over the dry, hard-packed snow—to my amazement in silence. Through the woods, down the river road we sped, and on through Richelieu-en-Bas. The light in the cabaret by the steamboat landing shone dimly; the panes were thick with frost. Here and there a bright lamp gleamed from some window, but, as a whole, the village was dark. We drove on to the open country towards Richelieu-en-Haut six miles away, sometimes through a short stretch of deep woods where the horses shied at the misshapen stumps, snow-covered. Then out into the open again, the flat expanse of white seemingly unbroken. Here and there, far across the snow-fields, I caught a glimpse of a light from some farmhouse. Once we heard the baying of a hound, at which all four setters came suddenly to life from beneath the robes and barked vindictive response.