The doe lifted her head with a quick motion. Had she heard something? Probably it was only the south wind in the balsams. There was silence all about in the forest. With an affectionate glance at her fawn, she continued picking up her breakfast.
But suddenly she started, head erect, eyes dilated, a tremor in her limbs. She turned her head to the south; she listened intently.
There was a sound, a distinct, prolonged note, pervading the woods. It was repeated. The doe had no doubt now. It was the baying of a hound—far off, at the foot of the mountain.
Time enough to fly; time enough to put miles between her and the hound before he should come upon her fresh trail; yes, time enough. But there was the fawn.
The cry of the hound was repeated, more distinct this time. The mother bounded away a few paces. The fawn started up with an anxious bleat. The doe turned; she came back; she couldn't leave him.
She walked away toward the west, and the little thing skipped after her. It was slow going for the slender legs, over the fallen logs and through the rasping bushes.

License information: nan
MPAA: G
Go to source: http://www.gutenberg.org/files/18561/18561-h/18561-h.htm#Chase