But Sandy piped up: “Well, anyhow, it’s better than nothing. And besides, I think it’s just fine. We can camp here and be all right. Come on, let’s make a warm fire.” For his feet ached now so badly he could scarcely keep the tears back.
They hunted around, found an old lantern, and lit it, for it was now dark. And the gale had helped them somewhat, after all. For they found great dry branches of the fragrant pine, broken off by the wind, piled in heaps—some of it splintered to shreds under the twisting of the gale.
Soon a roaring fire was going. But the wind, howling through the doorway and the window, made it pretty hard to get warm.
“Just my kind of luck!” grumbled the father.
But Sandy said: “Supposin’ we get some of those little trees, those pine and spruce, and pack them in the door and window. That will keep the wind out, and make us snug as a bug in a rug. Come on.”
So they packed the window and the door with spruce-trees broken off and stuck in the deep drift. Father sighed a bit with satisfaction, and Mother sat down with a weary smile, thrusting her hands out to the blaze as she looked tenderly at the boy.
“Fine Christmas, isn’t it?” grunted the father, again; “fine Christmas! Look at the icicles hanging on that spruce. Look at the snow powdering the tree, and that right in the room with us. Fine Christmas!”
“Sure it’s fine,” said Sandy, sturdily. “I think it’s finer than a boughten tree. It’s a real Christmas tree, and it’s got real icicles, not glass ones. And it’s got real snow for powder. All we want is some birds and stars and things on it, and there wouldn’t be a better Christmas tree anywhere. Mother and Daddy, you rest. I’ll go out here and get a good stack of wood,—that’ll keep the fire going,—and then we’ll have something to eat and we’ll be fine.” So, stamping his cold feet, he squeezed through the blocked door and crept out under the great pines.
Now what with the dense evergreens and the log-cabin, it was comparatively quiet and calm there under the pines. And Sandy got his first glimpse of how the wild creatures live through a storm. The lower branches of the pines were crowded with crows, jays, and other feathered waifs of the storm. They were doing their best to keep warm, and having a hard time of it in that bitter gale.
You know, these wild birds must sleep out in all kinds of weather. You know, too, that most birds’ feet can cling to a bough even when they are asleep. Also, you know that feather coats are warmer even than fur. And these birds, huddled together for shelter, picking out the thickest parts of the low boughs, snuggled down in the roaring gale and tucked their heads under their wings, crouching down low so that their feather overcoats could cover them from head to feet.