The winter of 1878 was certainly an unusually dreary one, and so thought
a remarkably fine young Blackbird, as he perched one morning on the bare
bough of a spreading lime-tree, whose last brown leaf had fallen to the
ground some weeks before.
With the exception of the Scotch firs and other fortunate evergreens,
there was nothing to be seen on all sides but leafless branches standing
out sharply against the cold, grey sky. The ground was frozen, and
entirely covered with snow, for there had been a heavy fall during the
night. The way-marks of field and road were obliterated, all was one
sheet of dazzling whiteness. Here and there a little mound marked the
spot where a flower-bed lay buried, and there was one narrow path where
the snow was thickly piled on either side, for it had been partially
swept from the centre, which showed traces of the bright brown gravel
below.
The Blackbird was contemplating this landscape in a discontented and
unhappy frame of mind. He was, as we have just said, a remarkably fine
young bird. His plumage was of a glossy blackness, with which not even a
raven's could vie; his bright eyes looked even brighter as they gleamed
from the deep yellow rims which surrounded them, and his bill resembled
the polished shaft of an early crocus.
At the time at which my story begins, this Blackbird was about eight
months old, and usually he was not a little vain of his appearance. On
this particular morning, however, he did not feel at all so proud of
himself, or especially pleased with any one or anything. He had passed
the long night in a wood hard by, and had been benumbed with cold.
He had tucked his head first under one wing, and then under the other,
but it had been of no use, the cutting wind had penetrated even his
thick warm feathers, and had ruffled them in a way which had sorely
discomposed him, in body as well as in mind.
Then again, all through the night he had been exceedingly put out by
little cold wet dabs which kept continually falling on his back. The
Blackbird had changed his position--he had done it several times: he had
moved from a birch to an elm, and then to a beech-tree. But it was of no
avail, the little cold droppings seemed to pursue him wherever he went,
and it was not till quite late in the night that he found real shelter,
and got a little rest in a thick mantle of ivy which completely covered
a wall near the stables.
What were these cold droppings? He could not imagine. He knew well
enough they were not rain; rain always made a sharp pelting noise as it
struck against the trees. But there had been no such sound, for, with
the exception of the occasional sighing of the wind, the night had been
a singularly noiseless one. What then could this cold, soft moisture
be?
The Blackbird could not at all understand it, but as he was well
sheltered, and soon got warm in the ivy, he fell asleep and forgot all
about it.
[Illustration: THE BLACKBIRD ON A SMALL WHITE HILLOCK.]
The next morning, however, when he woke up and peeped forth from his
green canopy, he was much astonished by the sight which met his eyes.
Everything was white! The green fields were gone, the lawn where he
found his worms, the flower-beds where he caught his insects,--all had
disappeared, and a broad, white, sparkling covering lay over everything.
What was it? what could it mean?
The Blackbird had no one to explain it all to him, so he thought he
would just take a short flight and find out for himself. He stretched
his wings and skimmed away over the white ground, and then he thought he
would rest for a while on a small white hillock.
No sooner, however, had his little dusky brown feet touched the surface
of the snow, than he found he was gradually sinking down, down into a
soft, but very cold white bed. With a shrill cry of alarm he flew up
again, and did not stop until he alighted on the bough of the lime-tree
where we were first introduced to him. What was it? What wonderful and
terrible new thing was this? and where was he to go for his breakfast?
He was sitting in a very melancholy frame of mind, stretching out first
one foot and then the other, when his attention was arrested by a flood
of joyous song poured forth from above, and looking up, he saw a
bright-breasted Robin on the bough immediately over his head.
The little bird in his scarlet and brown plumage looked more richly
coloured and even more beautiful than usual, as, supported by his
slender legs, with his head thrown back and his feathers puffed out, he
poured forth his light-hearted carol to the leafless woods.
"How can you sing on this miserable morning?" said the Blackbird,
gloomily, and indeed half contemptuously.
"Miserable morning!" replied the Robin in a tone of surprise; "why I
don't think it's at all a miserable morning,--just look at the beautiful
snow."
"Oh, that's what you call that white stuff down there, is it?" said the
Blackbird, disdainfully gazing at the white world beneath him.
"Yes, to be sure," said the Robin; "have you never seen snow before?"
"No," replied the Blackbird, "I've not, and I shan't break my heart if I
never see it again. All last night it was dropping on my back till I was
wet through and through; and just now, when I flew down to look about
for my breakfast, why it all gave way under my feet, and I might have
been smothered."
"Ah," said the Robin, shaking his head, "you won't mind it when you get
more used to it. You see you're a young bird; this is only your first
winter. Now I saw it all last winter. I'm nearly two years old."
The Robin said this with a certain pride of seniority, and stretched
himself to his full height as he looked at his younger, but much more
bulky, neighbour.
"I don't see any great advantage in being old," said the Blackbird,
sarcastically; "but since you are so experienced, perhaps you can tell
me what it all means?"
"Yes, I can," said the Robin, hopping a little nearer. "Rain, you know,
comes down from the clouds up there. Well, when it gets very cold
indeed, as it is just now" (here the Blackbird shivered visibly), "why,
then the clouds get frozen, and instead of falling in soft, warm little
drops, they come down in these white flakes, which we call snow. I am
not very learned myself," said the Robin, humbly, "but a very wise
friend of mine, an old Rook, told me all this, and he also said that if
I examined a flake of snow, I should find it was made of beautiful
crystals, each shaped like a little star."
"Indeed," said the Blackbird, "that is very curious, but, in the
meantime, I should very much like to know what I am to do for something
to eat. The fruit is all gone from the garden, and I can't find any
insects in the snow. Ivy-berries will be poorish eating day after day."
"What do all your friends do?" asked the Robin.
"I don't see much of my friends," replied the Blackbird; "we Blackbirds
are not so mighty fond of each other's company, we like to live alone,
we never," he said this rather loftily, "talk much to strangers; in
fact, during this cold weather, we don't care to talk to each other."
"Every one must judge for himself," quoth the Robin, "but methinks it
would be rather a dull world if none of us spoke to each other when it
was cold. You see it's very often cold here in old England, and the
winters are very long and dark. I should like to know what we should all
do without a little cheerful talk, and an occasional snatch of song?"
"As to singing," struck in the Blackbird, "I've been so hoarse these
last two months, that it's only when the sun is very bright indeed that
I can sing at all, and all my friends are in the same plight. There are
no leaves on the trees, there is no music in the woods, there is no
sunshine to speak of, and it's altogether exceedingly dull."
The Robin did not exactly know how to reply to this wail of discontent,
so he gathered himself together and poured forth a bright little song.
"How is it," said the Blackbird suddenly, "that you have all at once
become such a great songster? I never remember hearing your voice in the
summer."
"Ah, that's it," replied the Robin, "many people think I only sing in
the winter, but in reality I sing quite as well, and better too, for
that matter, in the summer. The truth is that it's very difficult for
me to make myself heard when the larks are singing so gloriously, and
the thrushes, and the nightingales--not to speak of yourself," said the
Robin, turning round politely. "Now, however," he continued, "there are
so few woodland notes, that I think my poor little pipe may be more
welcome, and I do my best."
Again the Robin carolled, and as the Blackbird listened he said, with a
certain air of respect, "You are a good little bird, Mr. Robin, and I
feel the better for having heard your song; all the same, however, if we
are to have much of this wretched snow, I should just like to know what
I am to do for my food?"
His song ended, the Robin had been preparing to fly away, but at these
words he drew in his little brown wings again, and said, "I hope we may
meet again in a few days, and that you may then be happier than you are
just now. In the meantime, however, it may be a help to you to hear
something which my good friend the old Rook once told me, and which I
have never forgotten. He said that the great God Who made you and me,
and the snow, and everybody and everything, would never forget any of
us, for He not only thinks of us, but, can you believe it, not one of
those poor little sparrows falls to the ground without His knowing it.
We don't think much of the sparrows," continued the Robin, "they are
low, mischievous creatures, but God feeds them, so I'm sure He won't let
us starve. I'm only a very small bird myself, but the thought that I'm
taken care of makes me feel very happy."
Then away flew the Robin, leaving the Blackbird on the bare branch, with
much to think about. He had heard many new and startling things that
morning, and now as he gazed at the snow-covered world, it was with a
happier feeling; the little Robin's discourse had not been altogether
thrown away.
It was getting late, and as yet the Blackbird had had no breakfast. He
determined, therefore, to make an expedition in search of food, and his
sable wings were soon bearing him swiftly over the sparkling snow. He
first flew to a wood not very far off, and as he alighted on a small
hazel-branch he noticed, just beyond him, a fine holly, and in spite of
the snow he could see that it was covered with scarlet berries. How was
it that he had never noticed that beautiful bush before? The ripe
berries looked very tempting, and he had soon made as substantial a meal
as any hungry Blackbird could desire--indeed he left one bough almost
bare. He felt all the better after this breakfast, and took quite a long
excursion over the snow-covered woods and fields in the neighbourhood.
It was very remarkable how many trees he now found covered with
berries; he had never noticed such a number before. In one hedgerow,
leafless though it was, he discovered a hawthorn-bush, and its small
black berries, hard though they proved to be, formed by no means a
contemptible luncheon, even after the softer scarlet ones he had
disposed of at breakfast. There was a mountain ash too, just on the
other side of the hedge, upon the fruit of which this keen-eyed
Blackbird made up his mind to regale himself at no very distant period.
Altogether, his day, which had begun so unpromisingly, was a decided
success, and that night, as he fluttered to rest in the ivy, and saw
the little silver stars peeping and twinkling at him through the warm
green curtains of his canopy, he thought of all the little Robin's
wise words. It was with a chirp of sincere thankfulness that he
tucked his head under his wing.
The next morning was sunny, but frosty and very cold. Before leaving the
ivy-bush, our Blackbird ate a few of the dark berries which clustered
thickly around him. They were not, perhaps, quite so good as the holly
or hawthorn berries, but still they were better than nothing at all.
He then flew from the ivy to his favourite branch on the lime-tree, and
he was not a little pleased to find that his small red-breasted friend
was there before him.
"Well," quoth the Robin, as he paused in his carol to welcome his
friend, "how do you find yourself this morning?"
"Better," replied the Blackbird, "much better." He then gave the Robin
an account of all his experiences of the day before, and observed how
curious it was that in one short day he should have discovered so many
new kinds of berries.
"It is remarkable indeed," said the Robin: "now I wonder what my old
friend the Rook up there would have to say about it."
The Rook was at that very moment sailing in slow circles round the top
of a neighbouring elm-tree. For centuries he and his ancestors had built
their nests in the particular avenue of elms of which this tree was one
of the tallest. It so happened that the Rook was just starting off for
his morning constitutional, and as he finished his round, and then swept
slowly across the meadow below, very deliberately flapping his great
dusky wings, he came in sight of the lime-tree on which the Robin was
perched.
Out flew the Robin, and then back again to attract the Rook's attention.
When the Rook saw this, he slowly gathered in his wings and swung
himself on to a branch close to his little friend.
He certainly was a very sedate, and even solemn-looking gentleman, at
least so thought the Blackbird. His plumage was anything but bright and
glossy, in fact it looked very shabby indeed, as if he had worn it for
some seasons without a change, and had been out in much rough weather.
His dark eyes were relieved by no merry twinkle; then there were small
bare patches (which were not over beautiful) on his neck; and his voice
was exceedingly hoarse and unmusical. But notwithstanding all this,
there was a certain quiet dignity, and an air of ripe wisdom about the
old bird which much impressed our hero, and made him listen with respect
to whatever words of wisdom fell from the blue beak, although they were
uttered in rather a croaky tone.
After the usual "good mornings" had passed, and the Blackbird had been
presented in due form to the Rook, the Robin said, "How comes it, Mr.
Rook, that there are so many new berries on the bushes?"
"You ask how it is, my little friend," said the Rook, kindly; "well, I
will tell you. Just now, when no insects can be had, what should we all
do if we had no berries? Now that the leaves have all fallen, we can
find the berries much more easily. Many of them were there already, only
you didn't see them. They are provided for us by our Heavenly Father. As
each season comes round, God gives us the fruits of that season, and
when one kind of food fails, He provides us with another. I am an old
bird," continued the Rook, "but I've never known the seasons to fail. We
do not 'sow, nor do we gather into barns,' but still 'God feeds us.' I
always look forward, and hopefully too, to every season as it
comes--Spring,--Summer,--Autumn,--Winter,--and, my young friends, you
will be wise to do the same, for, do you know, this trustful feeling is
called 'faith.'"
The Rook then shut his learned beak, and opened and spread his wide
black wings, and slowly sailed away, leaving the Blackbird and the Robin
to meditate on all that he had been telling them. At last the Robin
broke silence with "Have you breakfasted?"
"Yes, I have," replied the Blackbird, "on a few poor ivy-berries, but
I'm still rather hungry."
"Then come with me," said the Robin, "and you shall soon have a right
good feast." Off the birds flew, and swiftly passed over one or two
snow-covered fields, and then by a long avenue of lime-trees. They came
at last to a level lawn, at the end of which stood an old gabled
mansion, built of gray stone; ivy climbed round the pillars of an arcade
at the east end of the house, and ivy covered the west corner. The
time-stained gables, surmounted by round stone balls, stood out in the
sunshine, and the dark tiles of the roof peeped out here and there from
their snowy covering. The two friends flew to the west side of the
mansion, which overlooked a smooth grassy terrace and garden. Beyond was
a lake, and then came a wood behind which the sun sank, each evening, to
rest. Gray gables rose on this side of the house also, and there was a
large bay window which the Blackbird soon discovered to be the window of
the dining-room. There were some thick laurel-bushes beyond this window,
to which the two birds flew, and then they stopped to rest and look
about them. The Blackbird gazed admiringly at the old house, and with
especial interest at the bay window.
Standing there was quite the dearest little couple he had ever seen, a
little girl and boy.
The boy was a brave little man of about four years of age, with two dark
eyes, and thick curly brown hair. His face was positively brimming over
with fun and mischief. Standing by his side, and clasping his hand with
plump little fingers, was a little girl of some two and a half years.
She had a round baby face, gray eyes, and the sweet bloom of babyhood
was on her cheek. Her eyes had that wondering, far-away look, which is
so very bewitching in quite little children, and her small rosy mouth
showed some very white teeth, especially when she laughed, which was not
by any means seldom.
It was evident that these little ones were waiting for something of
interest, for they stood very patiently, and their eyes were fixed on
the grass beneath the fir-trees. At the moment we are describing the
redbreast flew from one laurel-bush to another, and then with a shout of
delight, the little children suddenly disappeared from the window. In a
minute however they were back again with faces full of expectation and
importance, bearing between them a plate of bread which had been
carefully broken into small pieces.
One of the large windows, which opened to the ground, was then flung
back, and the little boy, advancing carefully, scattered the crumbs on
the gravel path just beyond the window. The window was then softly
closed, and hand-in-hand the little children stood still to watch. The
opening and shutting of the window had frightened the Blackbird; he had
flown to a more distant bush; but as the more courageous Robin only
fluttered about for a moment, the Blackbird soon came back, and in less
than a minute the Robin was upon the gravel path hard at work picking up
the dainty white crumbs. The Blackbird still hesitated on the laurel
branch, loth to remain, yet fearful to advance, but at last, impelled by
a sudden pang of hunger, he ventured to join his red-breasted friend.
It was a most luxurious repast; never before had the Blackbird tasted
food half so delicious. It is true that he got one or two frights, for
once the little girl was so delighted at the sight of both birds
devouring the crumbs, that she banged her little fat hands against the
window-pane, dancing at the same time with delight. This gambol fairly
startled their feathered guests, and frightened them away for a minute
or two, but they were soon back again, and then the Blackbird saw that
the boy was carefully holding his sister's hands to keep her quiet.
Each morning found the little eager faces waiting at the window, and
each morning also found the two expectant birds perched on the
laurel-bushes. The feathered company was soon swelled by the arrival of
some impudent and very quarrelsome sparrows, a pair of chaffinches, and
a darling little blue titmouse, who, with his cousin a cole-titmouse,
soon became quite at their ease. By common consent all the other birds
avoided the sparrows. "They are common, idle creatures, you know," said
the Robin, "and none of us care to associate with such low, vulgar
birds."
The Blackbird, through the kindness of his little friend the Robin, soon
got acquainted with many other birds, and indeed he grew quite intimate
with a gaily apparelled Goldfinch. However, notwithstanding all this,
the Blackbird found it difficult to make friends, and could never be
quite so much at his ease as his more sociable red-breasted companion.
One day the Robin confided to the Blackbird a great discovery that he
and the Goldfinch had made. They had come upon a large barn, and there,
close to the roof, they had found a small hole. It was very small
indeed, but, after some hesitation, they had squeezed through it, and
had found themselves in a large room filled with huge sacks of corn,
oats and barley. Their delight at this discovery was not to be
described, any more than the feast they subsequently made. Mice, and
even rats, were scampering about in every direction, gnawing holes in
the sacks, and getting into all manner of mischief.
"We were afraid of the rats at first," said the Robin, "but we soon
found that they were much too busy to trouble their heads about us. The
Goldfinch is very anxious that the sparrows should not find out this
barn. They are greedy and quarrelsome, and would keep it all to
themselves, and try to turn us out."
The Blackbird soon found his way to the corn sacks, but he and his
friends were uncommonly circumspect whenever they met any sparrows.
They would even pretend that they were going in quite another
direction; they would fly straight by the barn, and then wait
patiently in a neighbouring tree or hedgerow, and not return till they
were certain of not being noticed.
It must be confessed that the process of squeezing through the small
dark hole was not altogether an agreeable arrangement, it sadly
disturbed our smart friend's smooth, glossy feathers. The mice too, to
say nothing of the rats, were not congenial companions. But the corn
was so good that it made amends for all these drawbacks.
Thus the winter passed by very happily, and what with the berries, red
and black, the corn, and best of all, the crumbs, the Blackbird never
wanted for food.
Not the least pleasant part of the day was the morning, when he paid his
visit to the bay window, where the little children were always ready for
him. No wonder he grew very fond of them, and soon learnt their names,
"_Willie_" and "_Alice_," which he would often repeat to himself as he
fell asleep in the ivy, and thought of the little boy and girl fast
asleep too, and of the happy meeting which they were all looking forward
to in the morning.