about
for my breakfast, why it all gave way under my feet, and I might have
been smothered."

"Ah," said the Robin, shaking his head, "you won't mind it when you get
more used to it. You see you're a young bird; this is only your first
winter. Now I saw it all last winter. I'm nearly two years old."

The Robin said this with a certain pride of seniority, and stretched
himself to his full height as he looked at his younger, but much more
bulky, neighbour.

"I don't see any great advantage in being old," said the Blackbird,
sarcastically; "but since you are so experienced, perhaps you can tell
me what it all means?"

"Yes, I can," said the Robin, hopping a little nearer. "Rain, you know,
comes down from the clouds up there. Well, when it gets very cold
indeed, as it is just now" (here the Blackbird shivered visibly), "why,
then the clouds get frozen, and instead of falling in soft, warm little
drops, they come down in these white flakes, which we call snow. I am
not very learned myself," said the Robin, humbly, "but a very wise
friend of mine, an old Rook, told me all this, and he also said that if
I examined a flake of snow, I should find it was made of beautiful
crystals, each shaped like a little star."

"Indeed," said the Blackbird, "that is very curious, but, in the
meantime, I should very much like to know what I am to do for something
to eat. The fruit is all gone from the garden, and I can't find any
insects in the snow. Ivy-berries will be poorish eating day after day."

"What do all your friends do?" asked the Robin.

"I don't see much of my friends," replied the Blackbird; "we Blackbirds
are not so mighty fond of each other's company, we like to live alone,
we never," he said this rather loftily, "talk much to strangers; in
fact, during this cold weather, we don't care to talk to each other."

"Every one must judge for himself," quoth the Robin, "but methinks it
would be rather a dull world if none of us spoke to each other when it
was cold. You see it's very often cold here in old England, and the
winters are very long and dark. I should like to know what we should all
do without a little cheerful talk, and an occasional snatch of song?"

"As to singing," struck in the Blackbird, "I've been so hoarse these
last two months, that it's only when the sun is very bright indeed that
I can sing at all, and all my friends are in the same plight. There are
no leaves on the trees, there is no music in the woo