92 WINTER 



from the woodlot came begging of me, and lived on 

 my wisdom, not their own. 



Consider the ravens, that neither sow nor reap, 

 that have neither storehouse nor barn, yet they are 

 fed but not always. Indeed, there are few of our 

 winter birds that go hungry so often as do the 

 cousins of the ravens, the crows, and that die in so 

 great numbers for lack of food and shelter. 



After severe and protracted cold, with a snow- 

 covered ground, a crow-roost looks like a battlefield, 

 so thick lie the dead and wounded. Morning after 

 morning the flock goes over to forage in the frozen 

 fields, and night after night returns hungrier, weaker, 

 and less able to resist the cold. Now, as the dark- 

 ness falls, a bitter wind breaks loose and sweeps 

 down upon the pines. 



" List'ning the doors an' winnocks rattle, 

 I thought me on the ourie cattle," 



and how often I have thought me of the crows biding 

 the night yonder in the moaning pines ! So often, as 

 a boy, and with so real an awe, have I watched them 

 returning at night, that the crows will never cease 

 flying through my wintry sky, an endless line of 

 wavering black figures, weary, retreating figures, 

 beating over in the early dusk. 



And to-night another wild storm sweeps across the 

 winter fields. All the afternoon the crows have been 

 going over, and are still passing as the darkness set- 

 tles at five o'clock. Now it is nearly eight, and the 



