Our Robin’s history simple was,
There is not much to tell,—

A little happy singing bird,
Born in a neighbouring dell.

And through the summer, in the wood,
Life went on merrily;

But winter came, and then he found
More full of care was he.

For food grew scarce; so having spied
Some holly-berries red

Within the Rectory garden grounds,
Thither our hero fled.

One evening everything was dull,
The clouds looked very black,

The wind ran howling through the sky,
And then came grumbling back.

The Robin early went to bed,
Puffed out just like a ball;

He slept all night on one small leg,
Yet managed not to fall.

When morning came he left the tree,
But stared in great surprise

Upon the strange unusual scene
That lay before his eyes.

It seemed as if a great white sheet.
Were flung all o’er the lawn;

The flower-beds, the paths, the trees,
And all the shrubs were gone!

His little feet grew sadly cold,
And felt all slippery too;

He stumbled when he hopped along
As folks on ice will do.

And yet he had not learnt the worst —
Of this new state of things;

He'd still to feel the gnawing pangs
That cruel hunger brings.

No food to-day had touched his beak,
And not a chance had he

Of ever touching it again,
As far as he could see.

At length, by way of passing time,
He tried to take a nap,

But started up when on his head
He felt a gentle tap.

"T was but a snow-flake, after all!
Yet, in his wretched plight,

The smallest thing could frighten him,
And make him take his flight,