At the time at which my story begins, this Blackbird was about eight months old, and usually he was not a little vain of his appearance. On this particular morning, however, he did not feel at all so proud of himself, or especially pleased with any one or anything. He had passed the long night in a wood hard by, and had been benumbed with cold. He had tucked his head first under one wing, and then under the other, but it had been of no use, the cutting wind had penetrated even his thick warm feathers, and had ruffled them in a way which had sorely discomposed him, in body as well as in mind. Then again, all through the night he had been exceedingly put out by little cold wet dabs which kept continually falling on his back. The Blackbird had changed his position--he had done it several times: he had moved from a birch to an elm, and then to a beech-tree. But it was of no avail, the little cold droppings seemed to pursue him wherever he went, and it was not till quite late in the night that he found real shelter, and got a little rest in a thick mantle of ivy which completely covered a wall near the stables. What were these cold droppings? He could not imagine. He knew well enough they were not rain; rain always made a sharp pelting noise as it struck against the trees. But there had been no such sound, for, with the exception of the occasional sighing of the wind, the night had been a singularly noiseless one. What then could this cold, soft moisture be? The Blackbird could not at all understand it, but as he was well sheltered, and soon got warm in the ivy, he fell asleep and forgot all about it. [Illustration: THE BLACKBIRD ON A SMALL WHITE HILLOCK.] The next morning, however, when he woke up and peeped forth from his green canopy, he was much astonished by the sight which met his eyes. Everything was white! The green fields were gone, the lawn where he found his worms, the flower-beds where he caught his insects,--all had disappeared, and a broad, white, sparkling covering lay over everything. What was it? what could it mean? The Blackbird had no one to explain it all to him, so he thought he would just take a short flight and find out for himself. He stretched his wings and skimmed away over the white ground, and then he thought he would rest for a while on a small white hillock. No sooner, however, had his little dusky brown feet touched the surface of the snow, than he found he was gradually sinking down, down into a soft, but very cold white bed. With a shrill cry of alarm he flew up again, and did not stop until he alighted on the bough of the lime-tree where we were first introduced to him. What was it? What wonderful and terrible new thing was this? and where was he to go for his breakfast?