Where was
the village? In what direction? Could she not see smoke rising
somewhere behind her, telling of the fires burning in the homes of the
people?
There was nothing, nothing, to guide her back--only some fields
apparently untrodden in every direction. So light was the little
girl's body that her shoes had rarely pressed through the crust. The
short winter day was near its end. A bank of clouds was gathering
about the setting sun, they told of an approaching storm; so also spoke
the chill wind that blew in the child's face.
Fright clutched at Timid Hare's heart. She thought of the power of the
storm-king. Here, in the snowy wilderness, it seemed that she must
perish. Was there no one to turn to in this time of danger? Yes.
"Help me, Great Spirit," cried the child, lifting her hands towards the
sky where she believed He dwelt.
With that cry came a feeling that somehow her prayer would be answered.
And at the same time Timid Hare remembered the little sock which she
always carried in her bosom. She pressed a hand against the place
where it should rest. Yes, it was safe.
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