The Art of Story-Telling, with nearly half a hundred stories

by Julia Darrow Cowles

And keep himself warm,

And tuck his head under his wing, poor thing.

Generally Robin gets through the winter very well, but sometimes he has a pretty hard time, and that is why this story came to be told.

One year, about Christmas time, there came a long spell of cold, stormy weather. It would snow, and all the children would shout for joy; then it would rain, and they would almost cry from disappointment; then again it would freeze, and they would run and slide and skate on the ice, only to be driven in by more snow and wind. So Christmas eve found them all snug in their houses, making the rooms gay with holly and evergreen, and talking about Santa Claus and their Christmas stockings.

But outdoors in the cold a poor little Robin Redbreast was far from being snug and comfortable. It seemed to him that he hadn’t had anything to eat for a month. Every grain of corn in the barnyard was under the snow, no one threw out any crumbs, and the seed pods and berries that were food in the coldest weather were so thickly coated with ice that it was like pecking glass beads to try to eat one. The North wind seemed to be everywhere. It drove him out of each corner in which he tried to nestle, and Farmer Gray’s barn door was closed while he was busy in the hedge trying to get a mouthful of seeds. When it came night, poor Robin felt so chilled and hungry and miserable that he simply couldn’t “tuck his head under his wing,” much less “keep himself warm.”

Once, when the lamps were lighted, he fluttered up to a window and tried to get behind the blind, but he could not squeeze in. Then he pecked at the glass, for he was a friendly birdie, and had more than once been fed from a window, but no one heard his little tap, tap, and away he flew, trying once more to find shelter from the driving storm.

Now, there was a church near by. People had been going in and out all day, making it beautiful with Christmas greens, and preparing the children’s Christmas tree. Robin finally perched himself in the ivy at one window, though the North wind threatened to blow him off any moment. There were lights within, and he could hear the happy children gathered round the Christmas tree. After awhile every one went away, and the lights were turned out.

A half hour later the faithful sexton came back through the storm to take one more look at his fires, and make sure that all was safe for the night. Robin, just settling himself for a long, cold night, could see his lantern swinging as he pushed his way through the snowdrifts. When he opened the great church door, the wind and snow blew in—and something else, too—a cold, hungry little robin. But the sexton never knew. He banked his fires a little more and went home, leaving Robin alone.

Oh, how warm and quiet and comfortable it was! Robin tucked his head under his wing and was soon asleep on an oaken rafter. When he awoke in the morning, his first thought was that he was in the forest. How big and green and beautiful! Evergreen and holly were everywhere. Great festoons were looped from chancel to window. A great mass of holly hid the choir rail. Little Christmas trees were banked against the walls. Wreaths hung from the arches, and the red and golden lights from the windows bathed all in sunshine. Robin could hardly believe his eyes.