Birds and Beasts in Winter.—The Owl and the Weasel.
“O! Nature, a’ thy shows and forms
To feeling pensive hearts have charms,
Whether the summer kindly warms
Wi’ life and light,
Or winter howls in gusty storms
The lang dark night.”
Burns.
Our birds out of doors had all a pitiful tale to tell next morning. Not that they had any reason to complain of the boisterousness of the weather, for the wind, after blowing the snow into the most fantastic of wreaths that blocked the roads and walks, and shut us quite up and away from the village, had retired to the cave of its slumber, wherever that may be. The sun, moreover, was shining from a sky of brightest blue, and the trees were like trees of coral, yet the frost was intense.
So while Buttons proceeded to feed the dogs—always an interesting operation—and I stood by looking on, the birds came round us in flocks. The robin, of course, was the tamest; he would almost eat from my hand: later on he did.
This was our own particular robin, who had come backwards and forwards for years, and knew every one of us, I verily believe, by name.
“It is terrible weather, isn’t it,” he said to me confidentially; “there is nothing to eat; everything is covered up, and the worms have all gone down a yard beneath the earth to keep themselves cosy. My feet are almost frozen!”
“That is right,” he added; “I cannot live without a little animal food, and this shredded morsel of sheep’s-head is delicious. Some feed their birds in winter on crumbs alone. They ought to study their habits, and add a bit of meat now and then. There, don’t go away till I finish my breakfast, because, the moment you are off, down comes Mr Thrush and gobbles up the lot.”
“But,” I said, “you’re not afraid of the sparrows.”
“I’m not afraid of a few of them, though five is more than I can fight, and often ten come. They are cowardly creatures in the main.”
“Now, Buttons,” I said, “as soon as you have fed the dogs give them all a romp in the snow; then set up the birds’ sheaf.”