The Wolfling [antikvár]

The Stile Between Two Worlds"AWA OOOH OOH, awa ooooooooo!" The lonesome howl, like the wail of a lost spirit, came eerily from the deep woods to the east where the sun had only begun to tint the snowy horizon. Robbie Trent, who always said he was "not afeared of wolves," shivered deliciously under the homespun counterpane and snuggled down in the feather bed that topped the comhusk mattress. Little drifts of new snow had filtered in through the hand-split shakes that roughly shingled the cabin roof. The world outside had a fresh white cover, to hide the stained drifts of February."Awa . . . OOOH . . . OOOH!" There it came again, louder and nearer, sending ice water along the boy's spine. It was good to be lying here, safe in the loft, listening to the wild cry. This was the first wolf he had heard in many months. Traps and poison had almost