SNAPSHOTS OF THE WILD. 
JANUARY. 
OUR FEATHERED FRIENDS. 
fT HERE was undoubtedly trouble in the 
garden. I mean, there was trouble 
beyond the snow—which was bad enough— 
the last snow of the winter, the birds hoped, 
cold as the hand of death, terrifying in its 
grim silence. 
The fact of the matter was, the balance of 
things in the garden had been upset. As 
usual, the robin had fought the sparrows for 
the bread-crumbs, and won; as usual, he had 
given place, after a wordy combat, to Black 
Prince, the cock-blackbird, when his highness 
was hungry enough to venture near the 
window ; and, as usual, too, the starlings had 
nipped in and ‘wolfed’ the lot during the 
argument. 
Then had come the continental thrush. 
