A storm is coming on too; nothing is heard but the howling blast, which mocks the cries of famished children.

The drifting of the snow makes it impossible to see what course they are to take; they have only to sit down and let the snow fall upon them.

It is a relief when they are quite covered with it, for it shelters them from the keenness of the blast! Alas! for the children; the cry of those who can speak is, Give me food! while the dying infant clings to its mother's breast, seeking to draw, with its parting breath, the means of life.
But the storm is over; the piercing cold seizes upon the exhausted frames of the sufferers.
The children have hardly strength to stand; the father places one upon his back and goes forward; the mother wraps her dead child in her blanket, and lays it in the snow; another is clinging to her, she has no time to weep for the dead; nature calls upon her to make an effort for the living.

She takes her child and follows the rest.

It would be a comfort to her, could she hope to find her infant's body when summer returns to bury it.