B. M. Bower

“ As before, so now they tricked the eye into a fancy that they lived. One could all but hear the snarls of the two standing boldly in the moonlight, the hair all bristly along the necks, the white fangs gleaming between tense-drawn lips. One felt tempted to brace oneself for the rush that was to come.
For two days Chip shut himself in his room and worked through the long hours of daylight, jealous of the minutes darkness stole from him. ”

“ When a girl has big, gray eyes that half convince you they are not gray at all, but brown, or blue, at times, and a way of using them that makes a fellow heady, like champagne, and a couple of dimples that will dodge into her cheeks just when a fellow is least prepared to resist them—why, what can a fellow do but knuckle under and say yes, especially when she lets her head tip to one side a little and says “please” like that?
Chip tried not to look at her, but he couldn’t help himself very well while she stood directly in front of him. ”

“ It wasn’t her fault.”
“Huh!” grunted the Old Man, as if he had his own opinion on that matter. “Well, it’s a rattling good picture—but this one’s better. Poor ole Diamond Bar—she couldn’t come through with it, after all. She put up a good fight, out there alone, but she had t’ go under—her an’ her calf.” He stood quiet a minute, gazing and gazing. “Doggone them measly wolves! Why in thunder can’t a feller pump lead into ‘em like he wants t’?”
Chip’s heart glowed within him. ”