He was sitting in a very melancholy frame of mind, stretching out first one foot and then the other, when his attention was arrested by a flood of joyous song poured forth from above, and looking up, he saw a bright-breasted Robin on the bough immediately over his head. The little bird in his scarlet and brown plumage looked more richly coloured and even more beautiful than usual, as, supported by his slender legs, with his head thrown back and his feathers puffed out, he poured forth his light-hearted carol to the leafless woods. "How can you sing on this miserable morning?" said the Blackbird, gloomily, and indeed half contemptuously. "Miserable morning!" replied the Robin in a tone of surprise; "why I don't think it's at all a miserable morning,--just look at the beautiful snow." "Oh, that's what you call that white stuff down there, is it?" said the Blackbird, disdainfully gazing at the white world beneath him. "Yes, to be sure," said the Robin; "have you never seen snow before?" "No," replied the Blackbird, "I've not, and I shan't break my heart if I never see it again. All last night it was dropping on my back till I was wet through and through; and just now, when I flew down to look 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.