It was intensely cold. Heavy sleds creaked as they scraped over the jeweled sounding board of dry, unyielding snow; the signs above shop doors shrieked and groaned as they swung helplessly to and fro; and the clear, keen air seemed frozen into sharp little crystalline needles that stabbed every living thing that must be out in it. The streets were almost forsaken in mid-afternoon. Business men hurried from shelter to shelter; every dog remained at home; not a bird was to be seen or heard. The sparrows had been forced to hide themselves in crevices and holes; the doves found protected corners and huddled together as best they could; many birds were frozen to death.
A dozen or more doves were gathered close under the cornice of the piazza of a certain house, trying with little success to keep warm. Some small sparrows, disturbed and driven from the cozy place they had chosen, saw the doves and came flying across the piazza.
“Dear doves,” chirped the sparrows, “won’t you let us nestle near you? Your bodies look so large and warm.”
“But your coats are frosted with cold. We cannot let you come near us, for we are almost frozen now,” murmured the doves sadly.
“But we are perishing.”
“So are we.”
“It looks so warm near your broad wings, gentle doves. Oh, let us come! We are so little, and so very, very cold!”
“Come,” cooed a dove at last, and a trembling little sparrow fluttered close and nestled under the broad white wing.
“Come,” cooed another dove, and another little sparrow found comfort.
“Come! Come!” echoed another warm-hearted bird, and another, until at last more than half the doves were sheltering small, shivering sparrows beneath their own half-frozen wings.