BIRDS IN A VILLAGE 143 



rience some exceedingly bitter moments, or even 

 hours, before he gives up the struggle. The 

 physical pain is simply nothing: the whole bitter- 

 ness is In the thought that he must die. The 

 horror at the thought of annihilation, the remem- 

 brance of all the happiness he is now about to 

 lose, of dear friends, of those whose lives will 

 be dimmed with grief for his loss, of all his 

 cherished dreams of the future— the sting of all 

 this Is so sharp that, compared with it, the creep- 

 ing coldness in his blood is nothing more than a 

 slight discomfort, and is scarcely felt. By and 

 by he Is overcome by drowsiness* and ceases to 

 struggle ; the torturing visions fade from his mind, 

 and his only thought is to lie down and sleep. 

 And when he sleeps he passes away; very easily, 

 very painlessly, for the pain was of the mind, 

 and was over long before death ensued. 



The bird, however hard the frost may be, flies 

 briskly to its customary roosting-place, and with 

 beak tucked Into its wing, falls asleep. It has no 

 apprehensions; only the hot blood grows colder 

 and colder, the pulse feebler as it sleeps, and at 

 midnight, or in the early morning, it drops from 

 its perch — dead. 



