The foxes were more playful than ever. Joyce had hung some pieces of caribou fat and shreds of white fish out for the snow-buntings and bluejays. Some of these bits were within reach of the foxes when they stood on their hind feet and clawed upward. Others were hung higher. The lower ones soon vanished. It was truly wonderful to see the antics they went through in their attempts to reach the others. They leaped, they clawed. They did everything but stand upon one another’s shoulders. When none of these availed, they sat on their haunches and, pointing noses at the tempting morsels, sang their white fox song.
“As if that would do any good!” Joyce chuckled.
“Singin’ for their supper,” drawled Jim.
One thing puzzled Joyce. To-night there were only two foxes. Always before there had been three. The small one was not there. Where could he be?
“Perhaps he overslept,” she told herself. But she was a trifle worried. These little wild playmates had become very dear to her heart.
Frightened, suddenly, by the slamming of a door down below in one of the cabins, the two foxes scampered into their holes, leaving Joyce and Jim alone with the night.
“They’ve gone in for the youngster, I guess,” Joyce laughed.
“The youngster?”
“Always before there have been three. The other was only a cub, or would you say a kitten? He is the cutest thing you ever saw.”
After that, having turned about to seat themselves on the hard packed snow and to gaze away toward the great white world and the blue dome above it, they communed in silence.