I fed it with a few crumbs from a biscuit; by degrees it revived; its warm fluttering heart beat against me; I cannot tell why I detail this trifling incident⁠—but the scene is still before me; the snow-clad fields seen through the silvered trunks of the beeches⁠—the brook, in days of happiness alive with sparkling waters, now choked by ice⁠—the leafless trees fantastically dressed in hoar frost⁠—the shapes of summer leaves imaged by winter’s frozen hand on the hard ground⁠—the dusky sky, drear cold, and unbroken silence⁠—while close in my bosom, my feathered nursling lay warm, and safe, speaking its content with a light chirp⁠—painful reflections thronged, stirring my brain with wild commotion⁠—cold and deathlike as the snowy fields was all earth⁠—misery-stricken the life-tide of the inhabitants⁠—why should I oppose the cataract of destruction that swept us away?⁠—why string my nerves and renew my wearied efforts⁠—ah, why?