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 That night of rain and cold few of the hungry hunting beasts were on the prowl, and no further peril came near the shelterless family in the fir thicket. But had a fox or a weasel chanced upon them, the timorous mother would have been no protection to her young. With no defense against her swarming foes except her obscure coloring and her speed in flight, she would have had to choose between staying to die with the helpless litter or leaving them to their fate and escaping, if she could, to bear another litter in their place. And there is no doubt as to which course she would have chosen. She loved her young ones; but she loved life better. She had but one life; and she had had, and with luck could go on having, many young. She would have run away, careering with mighty bounds through the stormy darkness to hide at last, with pounding heart and panting lungs in some other thicket.

And the nurslings would have made a succulent meal for the lucky prowler.

Fortunately, however, for this little story, the timorous mother was not to be faced by any such harsh alternative. For in this particular litter of hers, as we have seen, there was one youngster so much stronger than his fellows as to have been singled out, apparently, for the special favor of