“Well, last night, when it was black, black dark,� began Bobby in a scary whisper, “we heard a cry, as though some bird were having a bad dream. Then everything was quiet, and we settled down to sleep again. Pretty soon we were waked up the very same way. It happened over and over. I had my eyes wide open a dozen times, but I couldn’t see a single thing. And my ears are sharp, but I couldn’t even hear anything. Yet this morning a dozen families report some bird is missing. You don’t think a ghost bird could have taken them?� He meant the big white owl who sometimes comes down from the far north, where the storms grow, and snatches the sleeping folks out of their pine-tree perches. But that only happens in the winter time.
“It was Killer the Weasel, of course,� sniffed Watch.
“No, it wasn’t,� argued Bobby. “Killer’s been there half-a-dozen times, but he always leaves dead birds scattered around on the ground to scare us.�
“Then it was the Bad Little Owls,� said Watch.
“They wouldn’t dare!� exclaimed Bobby, ruffling up his feathers. “What do you take us for, a flock of sparrows?�
“A flock of foolish heads!� Watch snapped back impatiently. “It serves you right. Why do you keep on perching there if Killer knows right where you are?�
Bobby stared at him with round eyes. “If we did move, how would the new birds who come in on every wind find out where we are? Eh? How would we get together for the long flight? We robins stick to the Robins’ Roost so long as there’s a bird left alive to perch there.�
“Um-m,� said Watch thoughtfully. “It would be inconvenient. I see that now. But why don’t you fly along?�
“My wings!â€� Bobby almost hopped at the idea. “It’s easy to see you don’t know what business this long flight is. We can’t all go together—we wouldn’t find enough to feed all of us along the road. We can’t afford to spend all day hunting our food as we do here. And a fine mixup it would be if every bird left just when the whim took him. We leave in regular turn. Mother Nature gives us our first signal when the leaves do the butterfly dance (he meant when they turn gay colours and fall) and our last party takes wing at the turn of the worm.â€� (That’s when the worms dig down below the icy ground for their winter sleep.)
