White Sox, the story of the reindeer in Alaska

White Sox opened his eyes, winked them several times, and looked about him. Not a thing could he see except his mother. She was resting on a bed of moss close beside him, wide awake, chewing her cud. He knew he had not slept very long because it was still daylight. But the daylight was gray and damp, for the sides and roof of his bedroom were of fog,—fog so thick that it walled them in completely.

“Mother,” he said anxiously, “do you think we shall ever find our way back to the big herd?”

Mother Reindeer looked at him for a moment without speaking, and went on grinding the wad of food in her mouth—chew, chew, chew. Then she turned her head this way and that, as if listening for any sound that might be heard.

“I’m beginning to think the whole world is made of fog,” complained White Sox. “We’ve been wandering about in it for two days—here and there, up and down—without so much as scenting another reindeer or hearing a sound. Mother, I’m getting dreadfully worried.”

Mother Reindeer looked at him again. Her kind eyes were full of patience. She did not seem a bit worried about things like fog or being lost.

White Sox thought they had gone straying in search of better moss fields and had become separated from the herd by the heavy mist. He never dreamed that his mother was taking him to school. No, indeed!

“Mother,” he said, speaking a little louder, “what if we have been going farther away all the time and never find our way back to the big herd on the sea beach?”

Mother Reindeer swallowed her cud. “Nonsense!” she answered. “When the fog lifts we shall be able to see where we are. We have better moss here than down on the sea beach, and no mosquitoes to bother us. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“But, mother! it is very lonesome here. There isn’t a fox or a ptarmigan, not even an owl or a mouse,” White Sox complained.

Then he rose and stretched himself. He was five months old, and he had never been away from the sea beach before. He tried to look through the fog—this way and that way—but he was afraid of losing sight of his mother. He did not go more than a couple of yards from her.

“This awful stillness makes me unhappy,” he said. “I want to hear the sound of the cowbells, the yelps of the collies, and the shouts of the herders.”

Mother Reindeer watched him with kindly eyes. She was very proud of White Sox. He was her fifteenth fawn, and the smartest, handsomest, and most graceful and agile in the big herd.

He was very tall. His body was slender and well proportioned. His head was finely shaped and held very high; his horns were still in the velvet, and they were beautiful. His hair was of the darkest shade of brown—all except his legs, which, from the hoofs to the knees, were as white and smooth as the skin of a winter weasel, and his nose, which looked as if it had been dipped halfway to his eyes into a pail of milk.

Yes, indeed! Mother Reindeer had good reason to be proud of White Sox. He was strong as well as handsome; only a few hours after he was born he had been able to run with the other fawns and take care of himself. Now, at five months, he could outrun them all. And, strange as it may appear, all the other mothers in the big herd admitted that there was not another fawn to compare with White Sox.

Just at that moment, while Mother Reindeer was thinking about these things, a gentle breeze from the northwest blew in her direction and kissed the tip of her nose. She sprang quickly to her feet. She stretched her graceful neck, lifted her upper lip slightly, and sniffed the breeze.

“What is it?” White Sox asked quickly. “Mother, do you scent the big herd?”

Mother Reindeer was nodding her head upward and downward. White Sox turned his nose in the same direction as hers, and sniffed, and sniffed, and sniffed.

“Come!” cried Mother Reindeer. “Let’s be off!”

Away they went—right through the thick fog, just as if it had not been there at all. After they had gone a few miles, the heavy mist began to lift. They could see a little farther, then still farther, and at last, on a low ridge straight ahead of them, White Sox caught sight of moving forms.

“Mother! Look, look! It’s the big herd!” he shouted joyfully.

He was about to rush toward them, when his mother spoke.

“Not so fast, my son,” she said. “That is a herd of caribou. They are our wild cousins.”

White Sox was very much surprised. “Our wild cousins?” he repeated slowly. Then he became greatly excited. “Oh, mother, I’m so glad! I’ve always wanted to see our wild cousins. How lucky we are! Come, let’s hurry!”

“No, no, my son! You have many lessons to learn,” she said kindly. “Our wild cousins do not know we are coming to visit them. They have not scented us, because the wind is blowing from them to us. They will be startled when they see us. We must move very slowly. If we rush toward them, they will run away.”

As White Sox and his mother moved toward the herd of white caribou, they left the last of the fog behind and could see their cousins quite plainly.

“They look exactly like us,” said White Sox, after watching them for a little while.

“Look again, my son,” said Mother Reindeer.

But at that moment the caribou caught sight of the strangers. They quickly bunched together, with heads erect, and watched them.

Mother Reindeer paused. White Sox stopped also.

“No, mother, I was wrong,” he said. “I can see our cousins plainer now. Their bodies are more slender than those of the reindeer in our herd. Their legs and necks are longer. They hold their heads higher. There are no spotted or white ones among them.”

“Very true,” said Mother Reindeer. She liked to have White Sox find out things for himself. “The spotted and white ones are found only in the herds that live with man and serve him. Come, we will go to our wild cousins now. They are frightened. Walk very slowly, and pay attention to what I tell you.”