He did not see, or, more correctly, did not appear to see—­for I do not know what he saw and what he pretended not to see, really—­the lean, lithe, long, low weasel that passed, climbing and sniffing, beneath him—­within six inches—­possibly scenting out a rat.  He did not hear, or show that he heard, the blackbird—­she was rusty, dark brown, as a matter of actual fact—­scream, a piercing and public-spirited scream, when the very big claws of a little, round, spotted-feathered ball with wings, like a parody of a cherub—­but men call it a little owl, really—­closed upon her and squeezed, or pierced, out her life.  He did not feel, or let on that he felt, the branches gently sway as two eyes, glinting back the light of the moon—­eyes which were the property of a “silver tabby” female cat—­floated among the twigs, looking for him, him most certainly, whom she seemed faintly to smell, but never saw.

[Illustration:  “A ‘silver tabby’ floated among the twigs, looking for him”]

These things represented tense moments dotted through hours of cold, dark silence, and the blue-black dome of night arched, and the moon drifted, all in rigid, cold, and appalling stillness.

Then the wind changed, and our thrush awoke to a “muggy” day, under a soaked, cotton-wool, gray sky, all sodden with streaming showers of rain.  And, by that token alone, he must have known that he was in England.  No other climate is capable of such crazy, unwarned, health-trying changes.  He had come in an icy, practically petrified silence.  He left in a steaming, swishing, streaming gale.

But that was not before he had been down to scratch like a fowl among the dead leaves under the privet-hedge for grubs, who “kidded” themselves that they were going to be fine, flashing insects next summer.  He also prospected a snail or two, and broke through their fortifications by hammering the same upon a stone.  And, by some magic process that looked akin to the way in which some men divine water, he divined a worm out of seemingly bare earth.  It was there, too, and it came up, not joyfully, but tugged, to be hammered and shaken into something not too disgustingly alive to be swallowed.

Then, while a robin mounted to a spruce-spire and acted as Job’s comforter to all the birds of the garden by singing—­ah, so plaintively and sweetly!—­of the dismal days of frost and snow, he “preened”—­i.e. went over and combed every feather, and tested and retested, cleaned and recleaned, each vital quill.  Then, in one single, watery, weak stab of apology for sunshine, on the top of a fowl-shed, he surrendered himself to what, in wild-bird land, is known as the “sunning reaction,” which really consists of giving body and mind utterly to the sun and complete rest.

And then he left.

Now, it was no chance that he left.  Birds don’t do business that way.  To you or me, that location and its climate would have seemed as good for him to “peg out a claim” in as any other.  He knew better.  Something—­Heaven alone knows what—­within him told him what was coming.  He had the power to take a draft on the future, and by that means to save himself—­if he could.  Wherefore he flew on southward—­always south.