Oftentimes I
have thought it strange that one could walk through the woods and
mountains and plains for years without seeing a single blood-spot.
Most wild animals get into the world and out of it without being
noticed. Nevertheless we at last sadly learn that they are all subject
to the vicissitudes of fortune like ourselves. Many birds lose their
lives in storms. I remember a particularly severe Wisconsin winter,
when the temperature was many degrees below zero and the snow was
deep, preventing the quail, which feed on the ground, from getting
anything like enough of food, as was pitifully shown by a flock I
found on our farm frozen solid in a thicket of oak sprouts. They were
in a circle about a foot wide, with their heads outward, packed close
together for warmth. Yet all had died without a struggle, perhaps more
from starvation than frost. Many small birds lose their lives in the
storms of early spring, or even summer. One mild spring morning I
picked up more than a score out of the grass and flowers, most of them
darling singers that had perished in a sudden storm of sleety rain and
hail.
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