Explore "The Wolf Pack" by Ridgwell Cullum on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It was a baby girl. And she was sprawling in a sort of wallow in the dust-dry ground at the man's feet. She was on her back, and her tiny legs were vigorously kicking the air. Her small hands were aimlessly clawing the loose soil on either side of her, and the while her solemn eyes were gazing darkly up at the sunlit sky without blinking.
Her dirt was deplorable. Her garments were negligible rags. Her round chubby face was stuck up with the dirt which she had somehow contrived to moisten into the consistency of mud. It was in her mouth, her ears. It was caked in the soft down of her dark hair. Nor had her eyes escaped contamination. But she was crowing and gurgling with the sheer infantile joy of well-being, and the sight of her held fast the thoughtful stare of the man's black eyes. He was unsmiling.