There was much about these soft little balls that tumbled about him and snuggled in his tawny coat that reminded Kazan of the baby.

At times they made the same queer, soft little sounds, and they staggered about on their four little legs just as helplessly as baby Joan made her way about on two.

He did not fondle them, as Gray Wolf did, but the touch of them, and their babyish whimperings, filled him with a kind of pleasure that he had never experienced before.
The moon was straight above them, and the night was almost as bright as day, when he went down again to hunt for Gray Wolf.

At the foot of the rock a big white rabbit popped up ahead of him, and he gave chase.

For half a mile he pursued, until the wolf instinct in him rose over the dog, and he gave up the futile race.