It was now the season when the Elk were bugling on the mountains. Wahb
heard them all night, and once or twice had to climb to get away from
one of the big-antlered Bulls. It was also the season when the trappers
were coming into the mountains, and the Wild Geese were honking
overhead. There were several quite new smells in the woods, too. Wahb
followed one of these up, and it led to a place where were some small
logs piled together; then, mixed with the smell that had drawn him, was
one that he hated--he remembered it from the time when he had lost his
Mother. He sniffed about carefully, for it was not very strong, and
learned that this hateful smell was on a log in front, and the sweet
smell that made his mouth water was under some brush behind. So he went
around, pulled away the brush till he got the prize, a piece of meat,
and as he grabbed it, the log in front went down with a heavy _chock_.
It made Wahb jump; but he got away all right with the meat and some new
ideas, and with one old idea made stronger, and that was, 'When that
hateful smell is around it always means trouble.'

As the weather grew colder, Wahb became very sleepy; he slept all day
when it was frosty. He had not any fixed place to sleep in; he knew a
number of dry ledges for sunny weather, and one or two sheltered nooks
for stormy days. He had a very comfortable nest under a root, and one
day, as it began to blow and snow, he crawled into this and curled up
to sleep. The storm howled without. The snow fell deeper and deeper. It
draped the pine-trees till they bowed, then shook themselves clear to
be draped anew. It drifted over the mountains and poured down the
funnel-like ravines, blowing off the peaks and ridges, and filling up
the hollows level with their rims. It piled up over Wahb's den, shutting
out the cold of the winter, shutting out itself: and Wahb slept and
slept.