THE BIG BLOW. 239 
—and he had scooped the lion’s share of most 
things—was feeling weak and giddy. Food 
was what they wanted; food was what they 
must have, or quit living. And here it was 
before their eyes, banquets of it, and they 
couldn’t take it because they were too weak, 
or so they all thought, apparently, for not one 
rook made any attempt to ‘hold up’ a small 
bird. 
And then it was that a little bunch of 
feathers flopped down into the piling snow a 
yard from the old rook. He cocked one eye 
upon it, and flopped to the spot. Then he 
dug it out. It was a skylark; at least, it had 
been. It was now some feathers tied to a 
bone or two. It could not rightly be said 
to be alive, and it was not dead. But our 
rook made short work of it. 
Soon after, three meadow pipits settled. 
He walked up to them, and in three hops 
caught one. A child could have done the 
same. They would have fed out of your 
hand, if you had been there. And the ground 
was covered with these little birds settling to 
rest a few minutes, or hunt vainly for food 
that did not exist, and then struggle on. 
Now, it was our old friend looking for his 
bird in, and hauling it out of, the snow that 
put the rest of the flock in the way of a feed, 
