A WHIRR of wings, and a rush of feet!
And quick through the driving snow and
Grace, at the window, with wondering eyes
Watches their coming in shy surprise:
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A flock of snow-birds, tiny and brown,
On the gnarled old plum-tree settle down!
A moment she watches the chirping band,
Her sweet face resting upon her hand,
"O mamma, look! it is snowing brown"
She cries as the birdlings flutter down.
Then cries—and a laugh slips out with the words
"Why, mamma, the snow-flakes have turned to birds
