ake. Is it hours or days or weeks since
you were last awake? You do not know, and it does not matter. So you
croon, and mumble, and dream, and sleep again; and wake, and croon, and
mumble, and dream.

At last a day comes when you wake into something more like complete
consciousness than you have known since you shut yourself up. There is a
new feeling in the air; a sense of moisture and fresh smells are
mingling with the warm dry scent of your den. And you are aware that you
have not changed your position for more than a quarter of a year, but
have been squatting on your heels, with your back against the wall and
your nose folded into your paws across your breast; and you want to
stretch your hind-legs dreadfully. But you do not do it. It is still too
comfortable where you are. You may move a little, and have a vague idea
that it might be rather nice outside. But you do not go to see; you only
take the other paw into your mouth, and, still crooning to yourself, you
are asleep again.

This happens again and again, and each time the change in the feeling
of the air is more marked, and the scents of the new year outside
grow stronger and more pungent. At last one day comes daylight,
where the snow has melted from the opening in front of you, and
with the daylight comes the notes of birds and the ringing of the
woodpecker--rat-tat-tat-tat! rat-tat-tat-tat!--from a tree near by. But
even these signs that the spring is at hand again would not tempt you
out if it were not for another feeling that begins to assert itself, and
will not let you rest. You find you are hungry, horribly hungry. It is
of no use to say to yourself that you are perfectly snug and contented
where you are, and that there is all the spring and summer to get up in.
You are no longer contented. It is nearly five months since you had your
last meal, and you will not have another till you go out for yourself
and get it. Mumbling your paws will not satisfy you. There is really
nothing for it but to get up.

But, oh, what a business it is, that getting up! Your shoulders are
cramped and your back is stiff; and as for your legs underneath you, you
wonder if they will really ever get supple and strong again. First you
lift your head from your breast and try moving your neck about, and
sniff at the walls of your den. Then you unfold your arms,
and--ooch!--how they crack, first one and then the other! At last you
begin to roll from one side to the other, and try