FullReads

You see under the drooping boughs of the fir-tree yonder an old stone basin, well known to all the birds in the neighbourhood, for there they always find a supply of fresh water and food of various kinds to suit all tastes. As it is opposite the dining-room window, it is very interesting to see a tame jay and sundry squirrels enjoying the acorns which were collected for them last autumn and stored up so as to keep the basin well supplied all through the winter and spring, until other food should be plentiful. Finches, robins, and sparrows find wheat and crumbs to their taste, and take their daily bath not without some squabbling as to who shall have it first–a difficulty which is sometimes settled by a portly blackbird appearing on the scene and scattering the smaller folk, whilst he takes his early tubbing and sends up showers of spray in the process. Very pretty are the scenes on that same stone basin when in early summer a mother bird brings her little tribe of downy, chirping babes, and feeds each little gaping mouth with some suitable morsels from the store she finds there.

A sheaf of corn in winter is also a great boon to the starved-out birdies, when snow has long deprived them of their natural food, and the water supply has to be often renewed on freezing days, for many a bird dies in winter from lack of water, all its usual supplies being frozen. The tameness of birds in severe weather is a touching sign of their distress, and a mute appeal to us to help them.

“The fowls of heaven
Tam’d by the cruel season, crowd around
The winnowing store, and claim the little boon
Which Providence assigns them.”

It is pleasant to think that they seldom appeal in vain. “Crumbs for the birds” are scattered by kindly little hands everywhere in winter, and in many a house a pet sonsie little robin is a cherished visitor, always welcome to his small share of the good things of this life.

Our ramble might be indefinitely prolonged and still be full of interest and instruction, but in these simple remarks enough has been shown, I trust, to lead many to think and observe closely every, even the minutest, thing that catches their attention whilst out for a ramble in lanes and fields, even a microscopic moss upon an old wall has been suggestive of many lovely thoughts, with which I will conclude our ramble and this chapter.

“It was not all a tale of eld,
That fairies, who their revels held
By moonlight, in the greenwood shade
Their beakers of the moss-cups made.
The wondrous light which science burns
Reveals those lovely jewelled urns!
Fair lace-work spreads from roughest stems
And shows each tuft a mine of gems.
Voices from the silent sod,
Speaking of the Perfect God.

Fringeless, or fringed, and fringed again,
No single leaflet formed in vain;
What wealth of heavenly wisdom lies
Within one moss-cup’s mysteries!
And few may know what silvery net,
Down in its mimic depths is set
To catch the rarest dews that fall
Upon the dry and barren wall.
Voices from the silent sod,
Speaking of the Perfect God.”

L. N. R.