Running round to the front, he found two dead birds and three wounded ones, whose necks were speedily wrung. Never was a boy prouder than this young sportsman, as he laid his trophies in a row and admired them.
"What a delicious broth they will make!" cried Katy, who longed to taste something really good.
"I'm hungry enough to eat 'em raw, like an Indian. Oh, Tug, look what I've shot!" Jim added, as his friend opened the door and stood shaking off the snow.
"Good for you! I've got nothin' 'cept a mighty good appetite. Why, they're cross-bills and red-polls!"
"What are they?"
"Birds that come down in winter from away up north. This little streaked sparrow-like fellow, with the rosy breast and the red cap, is the red-poll; they say he never breeds south of Greenland. Now look at these larger ones—see how strong the bills are, and how their points cross! That's so they can twist the hard scales off the cones and get at the seeds."
"Yes," said Jim; "they were hanging upside down and every way on the cones, and I could hardly see them to take aim."
"That's 'cause their plumage is such a vague sort of red and green, so near the color of the leaves and scales on those evergreen trees. The hawks and owls can't see 'em, either, half as well as if they were bright, and that's where the little fellows have the advantage of their big enemies. Did you notice any other kinds?"
"There was one different one, a little larger than any of these, that I caught a glimpse of—it was green, just like the hemlock leaves, and kept inside out of the storm—"