Winter Scenery 199 



-wretched home for them. Puny tits, feathery bunches 

 no bigger than a pigeon's egg, hang on to the lower 

 side of the snowy twigs, and peck for dear life some liv- 

 ing atom from the bark ; a few small seeds are left, and 

 flights of greenfinch chaffer and fight for them ; and 

 where jay or blackbird has scratched up a heap of 

 dead leaves the robin and his fellow-choristers quest 

 diligently for a dinner. And as the hard weather 

 grows harder, even the flitting wren is grudged her 

 tiny rations, as you gather from her pained and anxious 

 song. 



And still the cruel freak ends not. In the hard 

 frost ..scarce a whisper passed to the willow from the 

 stiff, dry riverside grasses ; but a wind gathers in the 

 north, and roars through the tossing oaks and quiver- 

 ing beeches till they moan again, swinging the myriads 

 of black sleepers in their shelter. But he is never so 

 frightfully frolic as in the free open, where he wreathes 

 the snow into drifts and garlands, and builds him 

 castles and towers as if to mock the doings of 'earth 

 going upon the earth.' And in this deadly extrava- 

 ganza not the slightest heed has he nor any of his 

 playmates for the sacredness of life. The mountain 

 sheep are buried, the hungry stag and his wild com- 

 panions are driven down to the poacher : where he 

 falls the wretched human wanderer is hushed in death. 

 It is done with no set purpose, no deliberate ferocity. 

 The storm passes, the grey clouds are rent, and pre- 

 sently quiet stars shine brilliant on the furrowed snow 



