When the snow got to be three or four feet deep, and her foster mother, along with a wide-antlered bull, three other cows, and a couple of youngsters had trodden out a 'moose yard' with its maze of winding alleys, her plight grew sore.

All along the bottom edges of these alleys she nibbled the dead grass and dry herbage, and she tried to browse, like her companions, on the twigs of poplar and birch.

But the insufficient, unnatural food and the sharp cold hit her hard.

She would huddle up beneath her mother's belly or crowd down among the rest of the herd for warmth, but long before Christmas she had become a mere bag of bones." The Child shivered sympathetically.

But, remembering the Snowhouse Baby, he could not help inquiring: "Why didn't she make herself a house in the snow ?" "Didn't know enough!" answered Uncle Andy shortly.