So Tug and Aleck went away into the storm, one out upon the wide white desert, the other wading up the drifted slopes to the woods.
Katy and Jim stayed at home, sitting comfortably in the house. She was reading aloud from an old newspaper they had found lying in a corner, when there came plainly to her ears the twittering of small birds.
"Listen, Jimkin. Did you hear that?"
"Snow-birds!" the boy exclaimed. "Right on the roof, too, and nary a trap!"
"Let us go out," said Katy, eagerly. "Perhaps we could catch one or two somehow."
So they crept out, and saw that the thick hemlock growing beside the big rock was covered with small birds. Some were hiding away from the "cauld blast" in the nooks between the dense branches; some were hanging upon the little cones, swinging and clinging like acrobats; some were taking short flights through the smoke to warm their toes, or sitting on the bare rock near the top of the chimney. They were of two kinds, but all equally happy and unconcerned.
"If I only had the gun I could knock over about twenty at once," Jim whispered. "I believe I could even kill a lot with my pea-shooter."
"Could you? Well, Jimkin, I've got some strong rubber cord in my trunk, and you might make one of those horrid forked-stick things."
"That's a splendid idea, Katy. Get your rubber, and I'll cut a stick. Hurry up!"