The Robin said this with a certain pride of seniority, and stretched himself to his full height as he looked at his younger, but much more bulky, neighbour.
“I don’t see any great advantage in being old,” said the Blackbird, sarcastically; “but since you are so experienced, perhaps you can tell me what it all means?”
“Yes, I can,” said the Robin, hopping a little nearer. “Rain, you know, comes down from the clouds up there. Well, when it gets very cold indeed, 7 as it is just now” (here the Blackbird shivered visibly), “why, then the clouds get frozen, and instead of falling in soft, warm little drops, they come down in these white flakes, which we call snow. I am not very learned myself,” said the Robin, humbly, “but a very wise friend of mine, an old Rook, told me all this, and he also said that if I examined a flake of snow, I should find it was made of beautiful crystals, each shaped like a little star.”
“Indeed,” said the Blackbird, “that is very curious, but, in the meantime, I should very much like to know what I am to do for something to eat. The fruit is all gone from the garden, and I can’t find any insects in the snow. Ivy-berries will be poorish eating day after day.”
“What do all your friends do?” asked the Robin.
“I don’t see much of my friends,” replied the Blackbird; “we Blackbirds are not so mighty fond of each other’s company, we like to live alone, we never,” he said this rather loftily, “talk much to strangers; in fact, during this cold weather, we don’t care to talk to each other.”
“Every one must judge for himself,” quoth the 8 Robin, “but methinks it would be rather a dull world if none of us spoke to each other when it was cold. You see it’s very often cold here in old England, and the winters are very long and dark. I should like to know what we should all do without a little cheerful talk, and an occasional snatch of song?”
“As to singing,” struck in the Blackbird, “I’ve been so hoarse these last two months, that it’s only when the sun is very bright indeed that I can sing at all, and all my friends are in the same plight. There are no leaves on the trees, there is no music in the woods, there is no sunshine to speak of, and it’s altogether exceedingly dull.”
The Robin did not exactly know how to reply to this wail of discontent, so he gathered himself together and poured forth a bright little song.
“How is it,” said the Blackbird suddenly, “that you have all at once become such a great songster? I never remember hearing your voice in the summer.”