White Sox did not ask if his mother knew the way back to the big herd. He had learned his lesson well. Besides, Mother Reindeer had told him that it was not the first time she had visited the caribou. When she said, “Come, let us be off!” he was quite ready to follow without asking foolish questions.
Away they went at a brisk trot. Both were glad to be going home. Presently Mother Reindeer said, “If all goes well, we should reach the big herd by tomorrow night. I have a story to tell you before we get there. All reindeer mothers tell this story to their fawns.”
Mother Reindeer would have told this story to White Sox long ago, but she had wanted him to meet his wild cousins first. White Sox was different from the other fawns, and—well, you’ll understand after you have heard the story.
They had traveled about ten miles when a northwest breeze sprang up. The air soon became full of flying snow. Mother Reindeer changed her course so that they almost faced the wind. It was a terrible wind. White Sox had never faced a blizzard before. He kept close in on his mother’s side, and he snuggled his head to her shoulder. In this way they trotted along at about six miles an hour.
The air became colder and colder. Soon the snow was like the fog—it walled them in as they ran. Mother Reindeer did not slacken her speed, and White Sox felt quite sure it was all right. But after they had gone about twenty-four miles, he began to feel very tired and hungry.
“Please let us stop and eat a bit of moss,” he begged. “We didn’t finish our breakfast, mother. I want to rest awhile.”
“Not yet, my son,” Mother Reindeer said. “A little farther on, when we reach the other side of that ridge, we shall be out of the storm zone. Then we will rest and eat.”
White Sox thought those last three miles were the longest he had ever run in his life. He had never, never been quite so hungry. But on they went, and at last the ridge was crossed. There was nice weather then. And right there on the slope, under three inches of freshly fallen snow, was a bed of moss. Um! It was the nicest moss White Sox had ever tasted.
“Is it because I am so hungry, or because of the snow, that this moss is so good?” he asked his mother.
“Both, my son,” she replied. “In summer, moss is either too dry or too wet. We eat a little of it, but we like the grass and foliage better. These produce our back-fat, which we must have to help us through the winter. Snow gives the moss the right amount of moisture. We live on it through the long winter, but every moon we lose some of our back-fat. We are always glad when the snow goes and the grass comes.”