Fifty degrees below zero was bad for fisher and marten and lynx; on such nights they preferred the warmth of snug holes and deep windfalls to full stomachs, and his traps were usually empty.

This morning it was forty-seven degrees below zero.

Cold enough! He turned, closed the door, shivered.
Then he stopped halfway to the stove, and stared.
Last night, or rather in that black part of the early day when they had gone to bed, Father Roland had warned him to make no noise in the morning; that they would let David sleep until noon; that he was sick, worn out, and needed rest.

And there he stood now in the doorway of his room, even before the fire was started--looking five years younger than he looked last night, nodding cheerfully.
Thoreau grinned.
"_Boo-jou, m'sieu_," he said in his Cree-French.

"My order was to make no noise and to let you sleep," and he nodded toward the Missioner's room.
"The sun woke me," said David.