otherfaerieshunkereddown,buriedbehblasunderacoatoffallenleaves,orinholes,orhidinhollowtrees.Wedidourbesttobeeunseeable,asifwedid.Theearlyarrivalofnightordrippidayswereouroefromthetenseboredomofhiding.TheodorofourstantfearmihtherotofNovember.

    Backtobacktobaatriangle,Igel,SmaoladIsatwatchupontheridge,themsunbufferedbylowdenseclouds,theairpregnantwithsnow.Ordinarily,Igelwahingtodowithme,notsidayyearsbeforewhenInearlybetrayedthebytryingtospeakwiththeman.Twosetsoffootstepsapproachedfromthesouth;oneheavy,crashingthroughthebrush,theothersoft.Thehumanssteppedintoameadow.Anairofimpatiengabouttheman,andtheboy,aboutseveyearsold,lookedanxioustoplease.Thefathercarriedhisshotguofire.Thesonsgunwasbrokenapartandawkwardtocarryashestruggledoutofthebrush.Theyworematgplaidjacketsandbilledcapswiththeearflapsdownagainstthechill.Weleanedforwardtolistentotheirversationiillness.Withpractidtratioheyears,Iwasnowabletodeciphertheirspeech.

    "Imcold,"saidtheboy.

    "Itlltoughenyouup.Besides,wehaventfoundwhatwecamefor."

    "Wehaventevenseenoneallday."

    "Theyreouthere,Osk."

    "Iveoheminpictures."

    "Whenyouseetherealthing,"saidtheman,"aimforthelittlebuggersheart."Hemotionedfortheboytofollow,andtheyheadedeastintotheshadows.

    "Letsgo,"saidIgel,andwebegantotrailthem,keepingourselveshiddenatadistance.Whentheypaused,wepaused,andatoursedsuchstop,ItuggedonSmaolachssleeve.

    "Whatarew