while it was yet quite dark, a farm-hand rose from his warm bed to go to the village on business. he put on a wadded jacket and fur-lined cap, lighted a pipe—the glow illuminating his pock-marked hands—and went out into the yard. the dogs leaped round him, uttering timid cowardly whines. he grinned, kicked them aside, and opened the gate.
outside darkness had descended softly from the heavens, and lovingly overspread a tired world; greenish clouds floated through the blue- black sea of naked space and the snow gleamed greyish blue beneath a turbid moon. the keen snow-wind swept the ground in a fury of white swirls.
the man glanced up at the sky, whistled, and strode off to the village at a brisk swinging pace. he did not mark a wolf stealing along close by the road and running on ahead of him. but when he was near the village he came to a sudden halt. there, on the road in front of him, a huge, lean, much-scarred wolf sat on its hind legs by a crossway. with hideous, baleful green eyes it watched his approach. the man whistled, and waved his arm. the wolf did not stir: its eyes grew dim for a moment; then lighted up again with a cruel ferocious glare.
the man struck a match and took a few steps forward: still the wolf did not stir. then the man halted, the smile left his face, and he looked anxiously about him. all around stretched fields, the village was yet in the distance. he made a snow-ball and flung it ingratiatingly at the wolf. the brute remained still, only champing its jaws and bristling the hair on its neck.
a moment the man remained there; then turned back. he walked slowly at first; then he began to run. faster and faster he flew; but, as he neared his farm, he beheld the wolf again on the road before him. it was once more sitting on its haunches, and it licked its dripping jaws. now terror seized the unfortunate peasant. he shouted; then wheeled, and ran back blindly. he shrieked wildly as he ran—mad with fear, unaware what he was doing. there was a death-like hush over the snow-laden earth that lay supine beneath the cloud-ridden moon. the frenzied man alone was screaming.
gasping, staggering, with froth on his lips, he reached the village at last. there stood the wolf! he dashed from the road tossing his arms, uttering hoarse terrified cries; his cap had fallen off long before, his hair and red scarf were streaming in the wind. behind him came the relentless pad, pad of the wolf; it's hot, fetid breath scorched the nape of his neck; he could hear it snapping its jaws. he stumbled, lurched forward, fell: as he was about to lift himself from the deep spongy snow, the wolf leaped upon him and struck him from behind—a short, powerful blow on the neck.
the man fell—to rise no more! a moment, and then his horrible choking cries had ceased. through the vastness rang the wolf's savage, solitary howling.
