But perhaps you may not know that there is one weak point about this feather overcoat. They can not entirely cover up in it. There is just one spot at the eye which they can not cover. That too, perhaps, is to shield them. They keep one eye out, literally, for the fox and the owl and the hawk. But on a bitter night like this, there is another trouble. If it gets too cold, that one spot, meant for a lookout, will freeze. And often after a bitter winter gale you will find crows and jays and snowbirds blinded by the cold. They have changed positions, put one eye, and then the other under, but been able to keep neither warm. That one bit, exposed, acts just as if you were all tucked in blankets, except one toe. You can keep changing the toe, but in bitter weather, very bitter, that toe will freeze. So with the birds that roost. They have no nest; they do not crawl into some hole. They roost in fear of their enemies, and sometimes pay the terrible penalty for that one hole in their feather blanket.
That’s why sometimes you hear a “thump” on your window on a very cold winter night, and the next morning, find a poor quail or grouse or jay or crow cold, freezing, half-blind already. He had seen the glow of your fire dimly and flown to it—for safety.
And that was what was happening when Sandy crept out to get more firewood. This was a record blizzard—a bitter, freezing, zero night. And the birds were doing their level best to keep their eyes warm. They did not even notice Sandy as he crept near and watched. Some meadow-larks and quail had crouched under the snow-covered bushes at the foot of the pines, and they were bunched together, all heads out and all trying to keep their eyes from freezing. Sandy saw it and felt sorry for them. He was trying to keep his own feet from freezing, and knew how it felt. But he could not help the birds.
He could see the glow of the fire through the spruce-blocked door and window. It shone cheerily through the one window with glass. And hastily Sandy gathered some wood and came back inside. Then they ate their supper, Sandy saving the crumbs for the birds.
The blizzard grew worse and worse. The great trees rocked and groaned and cracked till Sandy thought they would break off short and tumble on the shaking cabin. Some of them did split, with a boom like thunder, and fell with a muffled thud in the deep snow. Then came faint twitterings and dismayed caws. The birds were having a hard time out there.
There came a thud against the single pane, and Sandy lifted the sash to take in two quail that had flown against the glass in their attempt to come into the warm room. But the crows were wiser than the quail. They came farther down through the twigs and roosted on the branches. They showed the others the way to the warm room. Then came some snowbirds, their black-and-white feathers all fluffed out with frost; and meadow-larks, quail, and grouse, all perching on the tree in the window; all grateful for the warm refuge in that terrible blizzard. Even a couple of rabbits came hopping through the open door and crouched panting from the gale.
So Sandy and Father and Mother sat over the fire, trying hard to keep warm. Mother was so tired she soon fell asleep, her head resting on Sandy’s lap. They sat late, very late—almost to midnight. And then came a wonderful thing—the storm stopped almost suddenly. The stars came out; the northern lights began to glow and burn like melted opals, like soft fires, all colors, in the sky. It was Christmas eve, and the churchbells in the valley began to ring out Christmas carols—
It came upon the midnight clear,
That glorious song of old.
Faintly the bells rang, faint and far across the snow.