He was very tall. His body was slender and well proportioned. His head was finely shaped and held very high; his horns were still in the velvet, and they were beautiful. His hair was of the darkest shade of brown—all except his legs, which, from the hoofs to the knees, were as white and smooth as the skin of a winter weasel, and his nose, which looked as if it had been dipped halfway to his eyes into a pail of milk.
Yes, indeed! Mother Reindeer had good reason to be proud of White Sox. He was strong as well as handsome; only a few hours after he was born he had been able to run with the other fawns and take care of himself. Now, at five months, he could outrun them all. And, strange as it may appear, all the other mothers in the big herd admitted that there was not another fawn to compare with White Sox.
Just at that moment, while Mother Reindeer was thinking about these things, a gentle breeze from the northwest blew in her direction and kissed the tip of her nose. She sprang quickly to her feet. She stretched her graceful neck, lifted her upper lip slightly, and sniffed the breeze.
“White Sox turned his nose in the same direction as hers, and sniffed, and sniffed, and sniffed.”
“What is it?” White Sox asked quickly. “Mother, do you scent the big herd?”
Mother Reindeer was nodding her head upward and downward. White Sox turned his nose in the same direction as hers, and sniffed, and sniffed, and sniffed.
“Come!” cried Mother Reindeer. “Let’s be off!”
Away they went—right through the thick fog, just as if it had not been there at all. After they had gone a few miles, the heavy mist began to lift. They could see a little farther, then still farther, and at last, on a low ridge straight ahead of them, White Sox caught sight of moving forms.
“Mother! Look, look! It’s the big herd!” he shouted joyfully.