DEAD LOW 287 



be seen redly setting. As for softening the ice- 

 gripped mould, that he was unable to do. There 

 is not such a thing as a worm or a grub to be found 

 among the whole army of thrushes native and 

 foreign, and the berries of hedgerow and tree 

 are almost gone. High in air a party of field-fares 

 going off to roost laugh the harsh chuckle of 

 people who find that life's irony has passed bearing 

 point. Redwings are moping about the orchard 

 as thin as bones, and many have yielded up their 

 gentle lives. On the other hand, we can detect 

 no abatement in the cheerfulness of the wren 

 that still tilts her tail at an absurd angle, and 

 goes clicking about her work like a well-wound 

 clock. 



It is perfectly natural, of course, that we who 

 know by an experience of thousands of years 

 that the sun will stop going down and come again 

 smothered in flowers should be able to be cheerful 

 at Christmas. It is not wonderful that we who 

 have our larders stuffed with last year's fruits, 

 our cellars (coal cellars I mean) stored with the 

 spoil of a million ages, and whose ships bring us 

 daily the gifts of the sun from other parts of the 

 earth, should feel confident that this age of death 

 will pass. It is an easy thing to go carolling at 

 doors that you know will open upon rosy firesides 

 and tables of plenty, but it is an annual miracle 

 to hear the thrushes singing obviously about 

 February courtship, April eggs, and May grubs 

 when the world is being daily turned away and 



