But it was of no use. Wherever he came, it seemed to him that everything was so wretched and bare.
Out in the field the lark was flying up to the sky and singing its trills.
"Good-morning, sparrow," it twittered. "I am glad to see that you have not gone away. I am also staying on, as long as I can stand it. It is so delightful at home here, even in winter. Only see how the trees have decked themselves out with hoarfrost, how the ice glistens, and how gleaming white the snow is!"
"It is miserable," said the sparrow. "Poverty and want everywhere."
But the lark did not hear a word of what he said; he flew on his way, singing joyously.
"Craw!" screamed the black jackdaws. "The winter is not so bad after all." And then they walked proudly round the field and looked about on all sides, for they knew that they cut a fine figure against the white snow.
"The winter is really quite peaceful," said the field-mouse, as he stuck his nose out of his hole. "If only it doesn't stay too long, the food will last. I filled my pantry well last summer, and as long as one has food one can always keep warm."
The sparrow heard it all, but it did not do him a bit of good.