He puckered up his little brown nose and sniffed the air, and the pungency of everything that was sweet and to be yearned for came to him.
And he listened.

His pointed ears were pricked forward, and up to him came the drone of a wakening earth.

Even the roots of the grasses must have been singing in their joy, for all through that sunlit valley there was the low and murmuring music of a country that was at peace because it was empty of men.

Everywhere was the rippling sound of running water, and he heard strange sounds that he knew was life; the twittering of a rock-sparrow, the silver-toned aria of a black-throated thrush down in the fen, the shrill paean of a gorgeously coloured Canada jay exploring for a nesting place in a brake of velvety balsam.
And then, far over his head, a screaming cry that made him shiver.

It was instinct again that told him in that cry was danger.