VI
Burns has a fine poem beginning—
“When biting Boreas, fell and doure,
Sharp shivers thro’ the leafless bow’r,”
in which, he asks,—
“Ilk happing bird—wee, helpless thing!—
·······
What comes o’ thee?
Whare wilt thou cow’r thy chittering wing,
An’ close thy e’e?”
Did you ever ask yourself the question? Go forth, then, as the dusk begins to fall one of these chill winter days and try to see “what comes o’” the birds, where they sleep these winter nights. You will find an account of my own watching in a chapter called “Birds’ Winter Beds” in “Wild Life Near Home.”