But it was of no use. Wherever he came, it seemed to him that everything was so wretched and bare. Out in the field the lark was flying up to the sky and singing its trills. "Good-morning, sparrow," it twittered. "I am glad to see that you have not gone away. I am also staying on, as long as I can stand it. It is so delightful at home here, even in winter. Only see how the trees have decked themselves out with hoarfrost, how the ice glistens, and how gleaming white the snow is!" "It is miserable," said the sparrow. "Poverty and want everywhere." But the lark did not hear a word of what he said; he flew on his way, singing joyously. "Craw!" screamed the black jackdaws. "The winter is not so bad after all." And then they walked proudly round the field and looked about on all sides, for they knew that they cut a fine figure against the white snow. "The winter is really quite peaceful," said the field-mouse, as he stuck his nose out of his hole. "If only it doesn't stay too long, the food will last. I filled my pantry well last summer, and as long as one has food one can always keep warm." The sparrow heard it all, but it did not do him a bit of good. "They seem to be contented enough with their lot," he said to himself, "and I suppose it is all right for them. But this miserable life of mine does not satisfy _me_!" So he flew home in the sulks, and settled himself again on the ridge of the roof. "Oh, I know what I will do," he cried suddenly. "I will creep into the swallow's nest and sleep there to-night, then I can dream that I am a swallow." And he did so, and dreamt all night that he was flying over hill and dale, over land and sea, all the way to Italy. He thought he was so light, so free, and his wings carried him as straight as an arrow through the air. It was the most delightful dream he had ever had. After this he crept every evening into the swallow's nest, and lay there till ever so late in the morning. When he came out, he sat crunched up on the ridge of the roof or in the bare lime tree. If the gardener's wife had not thrown out some crumbs to him now and then, he would certainly have starved to death. For he didn't care a rap about anything; he merely longed for the evening to come, so that he could dream again. Every evening he dreamt the same thing, but he never grew tired of it. "This is nearly as good as actually going with them," he thought. "If only I could dream in the daytime in the same way." But in time his head got quite muddled, and he paid no attention to anything. Little by little the winter was slipping away, and now it was gone altogether. The days grew longer, and there was more warmth in the sunshine. "What! are you still here?" said the sun. And he stared so hard at the snow that at last it grew quite bashful, and melted away and sank into the earth. "Wait a moment," said the cloud to the sun; "we must have a thorough cleaning before your turn comes."