Sporting Sketches 



the now weedy stubble, or whizzing flights back to 

 cover. The corn had lost much of its green, the 

 trees were turning to gold and crimson, but food 

 was almost too easy to find. The night air had 

 grown a trifle chilly, but the Whites were stronger 

 and wiser now ; so at dusk they sought the same old 

 sleeping-spot a little patch of snug grass and cat- 

 briers the plough had avoided because of some big 

 roots which lingered there. Robert and all now 

 slept in a little round bunch, from which heads 

 projected like the spokes of a wheel ; for in case of a 

 night alarm, when so placed, every one could take 

 wing without interference. Nothing could be finer 

 than the life they led, yet again trouble was brewing. 

 One fateful day there came another storm. As 

 had happened before, the sky was clear, there was no 

 warning. Even Mother White's weather-wisdom, 

 which could tell well in advance when rain or snow 

 was coming, was at fault. Yet the storm came, and 

 it was something frightful, yet peculiar. All day 

 long it raged, the stout corn swaying and crashing 

 down, till of all that noble growth but a beggarly 

 third at one end of the field remained standing. 

 When the terrified Whites reached the edge of the 

 standing stuff, they scarce could believe their eyes. 

 The ground was almost bare, yet marked with ap- 

 parently endless rows of stubs, from which the storm 

 had torn the mighty stalks, and these, strange to say, 

 had been whirled together into even, conical piles 

 which dotted the entire space. The blow was one 

 of those cutting things which White brains cannot 

 understand ; yet some shelter remained, and into it 

 they timidly crept. 



