The earth was bursting with green; the early flowers were turning the sunny slopes into coloured splashes of red and white and purple, and everything that had life was singing--the fat whistlers on their rocks, the pompous little gophers on their mounds, the big bumblebees that buzzed from flower to flower, the hawks in the valley, and the eagles over the peaks.

Even Thor was singing in his way, for as he had paddled through the soft mud a few minutes before he had rumbled curiously deep down in his great chest.

It was not a growl or a roar or a snarl; it was the noise he made when he was contented.

It was his song.
And now, for some mysterious reason, there had suddenly come a change in this wonderful day for him.

Motionless he still sniffed the wind.