Winterbound by Margery Williams Bianco

extra muffler will do for Jimmie. Get me that roll of red paper in the table drawer, Caroline, and see if you can smooth some of this ribbon out.”
    The room looked Christmas-like with green boughs above the mantelpiece and trailing ground pine in the Chinese bowl. Two days ago Neal had chosen and cut the two little trees, one for each family, taking the children with him on this annual excursion up the hillside, and Kay had trimmed their own from the box of Christmastree “orderments,” as Caroline used to call them, saved and put by from year to year and which they had remembered to bring with them even though the packing and moving took place in June. So all the familiar colored balls and dangles and shining gold and silver fruits hung there—or at least as many as the tree would hold—and the waxen Christmas angel, a bit smudgy from repeated handling, smiled from the top branch and the pink spun-glass bird chirped silently just below him, as they had done for so many Christmases before in different surroundings.
    â€œThe Christmas angel’s got a regular grin on him,” Martin said, reaching to straighten the old friend, who having lost half a wing soared rather lopsidedly.
    â€œI should think he would,” returned Garry. “There! I think those look all right.”
    She surveyed the parcels. No one could really tell, unless they looked hard, that the holly-printed ribbon had been twice used. Christmas dinner was to be at the Rowes, but not till two o’clock, for every Christmas DayNeal went out fox hunting; it was the one date in the year, he said, that he never failed to keep, so the family dinner was put off till his return.
    The children spent the morning coasting, not on the road, which was steep and dangerous and forbidden except in the company of elder people, but on the pasture slope behind the Rowes’ barn, where the occasional rocks and bumps were just enough to make the run exciting. Caroline had her new ski pants on, long, warm, and full around the ankles above her arctics, and Shirley had a pair, too, brown ones. Caroline’s had come from a New York store and Shirley’s from the faithful mail-order catalogue, but the children decided there was little to choose between them. Wading through the snow, dragging the sled behind them, the little girls looked like two long-legged gnomes, one brown, one green.
    Kay and Garry were just setting out for the house when Neal returned, old black-and-tan Sam at his heels. He had his gun over one shoulder, something limp and soft and tawny slung across the other, which he dropped on the snow at their feet.
    â€œMerry Christmas! How’s that for a nice fox?”
    â€œMerry Christmas! Not such a merry Christmas for the fox though,” returned Garry quickly, for she hated to see anything dead and that clean shining fur, the still slim paws and pointed nose gave her a pang of regret forwhat had been only a little while ago a living flash of speed and pride and beauty. But Neal was so cheerful and pleased about it; a fox skin she knew was worth ten dollars and ten dollars meant a good deal to the Rowe family. “It’s a beauty, Neal! Where did you get it?”
    â€œUp over Crooked Hill. He cost me three hours tracking and a six-mile walk. Well, old Sam and me decided we wouldn’t come home without we’d earned our dinner, and I guess we have.”
    â€œWhat does he weigh?” Martin asked. The younger ones had gathered eagerly round.
    â€œNot what you’d think. A bit more than a good-sized cat. Mostly all fur, you see; that’s what makes them hard to hit. Lot’s of times you think you’ve hit a fox, and all you hit is his fur.”
    â€œIt looks like a dog,” Caroline said. But as she drew nearer there was something not at all like a dog in the slant of the half-closed eyes, the warning lift of the lip above white shining teeth; that subtle difference which always sets