232 WITHIN AN HOUR OF LONDON TOWN. 



if it were blown upon, the owl would, as Keats has 

 said, "for all his feathers be a-cold." 



And then the limping hare, and the silence of the 

 sheep. So much is given here in small compass. 

 Hard black frosts frosts without moisture if con- 

 tinuing for any length of time, take the voices and 

 the life from all wild things. Little by little their 

 food - supplies grow smaller ; besides which, other 

 creatures, driven from their accustomed haunts, 

 come to share what little support there is. 



After a time the wind changes suddenly dead 

 south, and heavy rain falls instead of snow. Bare 

 spots show in the meadows ; the blessed sight of 

 green grass is visible once more. Birds, poor 

 things, show their joy and thankfulness by soft 

 chatterings, chirpings, and whistling. Rooks, wag- 

 tails, and larks must be in dire straits when they 

 come to feed in the streets of a populous town, as 

 they have done. Now they are in the fields, hunting 

 by the half-thawed rills and in the meadow splashes 

 for anything eatable, either living or dead. The 

 change does not last long, however. As I come 

 home, about four o'clock in the afternoon, a signifi- 

 cant sight attracts my attention. A small herd of 



