Page:The art of story-telling, with nearly half a hundred stories, y Julia Darrow Cowles .. (IA artofstorytellin00cowl).pdf/260

 Christmas eve found them all snug in their houses, making the rooms gay with holly and evergreen, and talking about Santa Claus and their Christmas stockings.

But outdoors in the cold a poor little Robin Redbreast was far from being snug and comfortable. It seemed to him that he hadn't had anything to eat for a month. Every grain of corn in the barnyard was under the snow, no one threw out any crumbs, and the seed pods and berries that were food in the coldest weather were so thickly coated with ice that it was like pecking glass beads to try to eat one. The North wind seemed to be everywhere. It drove him out of each corner in which he tried to nestle, and Farmer Gray's barn door was closed while he was busy in the hedge trying to get a mouthful of seeds. When it came night, poor Robin felt so chilled and hungry and miserable that he simply couldn't "tuck his head under his wing," much less "keep himself warm."

Once, when the lamps were lighted, he fluttered up to a window and tried to get behind the blind, but he could not squeeze in. Then he pecked at the glass, for he was a friendly birdie, and had more than once