Lost Creek Hollow don't you weep and don't you worry

When she did not respond to him, his actions came to a slow cessation.  This time, concern pierced whatever benevolent expression he carried towards her, yet at first the only thing that came about was a bubbling and hushed vocalization at her lack of response.  Perhaps for a moment he feared she was displeased with him but cast that off, as had there been anything that pressing she would not have allowed him so near.  So it was something else, something tucked away in the burdening pack that sat squarely and invisibly at her shoulders.

He jabbed at her shoulder closest to him with his snout, as though the action would have spurred her into what it was that he wanted in some form of play.  Instead this time it was merely precursor to speech.  "What happened," he queried in hushed tones as though defeated — and hardly in the way of a question.  But it was not forceful and perhaps it was more than simply asking about what had happened today.  Things had long become tense and sullen in their woodland, and how ever on earth they kept it at bay from their children of all things may have been the greatest mystery of it all.