“Oh that I were a bird!” exclaimed Spooner, one morning as we were seated round the Carron stove in our hall.
“No need to wish that,” said Lumley, “for you’re a goose already!”
“Well, I’d even consent to be a real goose,” continued Spooner, “if I could only thereby use my wings to fly away over the snowy wilderness and alight in my old home.”
“What a surprise you’d give them if you did!” said Lumley, “especially if you came down with your ruffled feathers as clumsily as you tumbled into the saw-pit the other day when—”
He stopped, for at that moment I said “Hush!” and held up a finger.
“Sleigh-bells!” exclaimed Spooner, with a catch of his breath.
“Nothing new in that,” said Lumley: “we hear them every day.”
“Nothing new,” I retorted, “to your unmusical ear, but these bells are not our bells—listen!”
I started up as I spoke, flung open the outer door, and we all listened intently.
Clear and pleasant they rang, like the music of a sweet new song. We all gave a shout, clapped on our caps, and ran out to the fort gate. There an almost new sensation thrilled us, for we beheld a team of dogs coming up weary and worn out of the wilderness, preceded by a gaunt yet majestic Indian, whose whole aspect—haggard expression of countenance, soiled and somewhat tattered garments, and weary gait—betokened severe exhaustion. On the sled, drawn by four lanky dogs, we could see the figure of a man wrapped in blankets and strapped to the conveyance.