“WINTER COMES.”

So she set about finding a sheltered spot in which to go to sleep for the winter, and decided that a corner of the old rockery below the vegetable garden, a place that was overgrown with nasturtiums, where the sun would strike even in the depths of winter would suit her very well.

She settled down into it just to see how it felt and almost immediately fell into that deep dreamless sleep which would last until spring came again. Unfortunately she had forgotten to tell any of the animals where she was going, and for the next few days everybody was searching for her, and the people of the cottage were very sad when she did not come for her scraps or her milk, because they thought she had gone right away.

The morning after Miss Amelia had gone to sleep in the old rockery, dawned misty and cold. There was a rime of frost on the lawn and the old gum tree where Joe the Morepork and Peter Possum lived, was making creaky noises which said as plainly as anything, “Oooh, my rheumatics!”

Down on the drying-green the Sparrowdenes were hopping about wishing that the people of the cottage would hurry with their breakfasts, and Johnny Black, the blackbird, finding the top of the macrocarpa tree rather a chilly place, soon cut short his morning song and joined them.

“Well,” he said cheerfully, “Winter's nearly here.”

“I wish breakfast was,” said Harold, the eldest Sparrowdene.

“Ah well,” answered Johnny Black, “breakfast is always later in winter, but you wouldn't know that of course.”

“That's right dear,” said Mrs. Sparrowdene, “the last time we had a frost you were only an egg, and what a time I had keeping you warm!”

“Well anyway—” Harold began, but he couldn't think of anything to say, so he wandered off by himself in the direction of the gorse hedge. He had not gone very far when he heard a rustling sound, and there before him was a bird, scrambling in and out among the gorse roots. It was rather a clumsy bird, with a brown coat and awkward legs, and although it was bigger than Harold, it was snuffling to itself in a most unhappy way.

“Hullo,” said Harold, “what's wrong with you?”

“I'm lost,” said the bird, and Harold saw then that although it was bigger than he was it was a very young bird—almost as young as he had been when he was an egg. Harold puffed out his chest proundly.

“What's your name?” he asked, “and how did you get lost?”

“Theodore Thrush,” said the bird, “I saw a little beetle and I ran after it to ask it the time, and somehow I lost sight of it, and then I couldn't remember the way home. That was last night,” he added dismally.

“Bad luck,” Harold Sparrowdene said consolingly, “what are you going to do now?”

“I don't know,” said Theodore.

“Come and have breakfast,” Harold flew up into the air, “follow me.”

“I can't fly yet,” cried Theodore.

Harold came down again, “You can't—oh, I say, this is a business. Here, I'll teach you.”

But Theodore only shook his head sadly, then he turned round slowly. “You see,” he said, “I haven't grown my tail yet.”

So they walked back to the drying-green, and Harold introduced his new friend to the others, and each time he said his name he said that he couldn't fly yet, like this. “Theodore, this is Mr. Black. Johnny Black, Theodore Thrush, he can't fly yet.” So that everybody soon knew that Theodore was much younger than Harold Sparrowdene, and that he couldn't fly.

Then breakfast arrived and for a few minutes they were all very busy eating toast and marmalade.

“It's a bad time of the year to be so young,” said Johnny Black, when, breakfast over, they were wondering what ought to be done about Theodore Thrush.

“Indeed it is,” agreed Mrs. Sparrowdene, “he can't stay on the ground all the time, and even if we could get him up into the macrocarpa tree he might very easily fall out again.”

“I know,” said Harold Sparrowdene, “couldn't we get the People of the Cottage to look after him.”

“That's a good idea,” said Johnny Black, “I'll ask Mr. Tom to tell them.”

He flew off and soon afterwards Mr. Tom strolled on to the drying-green.

So the birds flew away, and Mr. Tom played with Theodore.

Theodore was rather frightened at being played with by such a large and wild looking cat, but Mr. Tom was very careful and only knocked him over once or twice by accident, and presently the people of the cottage came out and shooed Mr. Tom away. They picked up Theodore who was tired out, and quite ready to go to sleep, and put him in a box with some wire-netting over the top, and set him out on the verandah. Then they went into the garden and dug him up some worms.

Theodore did very well on the verandah of the cottage. He did not like being in the box much, but the Sparrowdenes used to visit him every day, and Johnny Black brought him tit bits from the drying-green, and taught him how to sing. And soon enough his tail grew and his wings became strong, and the people of the cottage took the wire-netting off his box, so that he could fly away if he wanted to.

Theodore flew out of the box, but he did not leave Pudding Hill. He went to live in the macrocarpa tree, and a merry little fellow he was with his spotted waistcoat and bright beady eyes. He could sing, too, but not as well as Johnny Black, and every day he used to go hunting snails in the vegetable garden and amongst the nasturtiums that grew over the old rockery below it.

Mr. Tom, particularly, liked Theodore and he spent hours watching him bobbing about amongst the silver beet, while he lay on the verandah rail. He noticed that whenever Theodore found a snail he would fly over the bank with it, and then he would hear a tap-tapping noise, and when he came back there was no snail.

This interested Mr. Tom, but he could not understand the tap-tapping noise, so one morning he jumped down off the verandah and went down the vegetable garden.

“I was wondering,” he said to Theodore, “why you always take the snails over the bank, and why you make that tap-tapping noise?”

Theodore winked knowingly. “Snails,” he said, “often get into their shells back to front, and then they can't get out, so I help them—by cracking their shells open for them. I take them over the bank,” he added, “because there is a particularly fine stone there to crack them on.”

Mr. Tom nodded, and sat down to watch while Theodore found a snail. “Is it in back to front?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Theodore, “I think so.” He picked it up and flew over the bank with it. Mr. Tom followed slowly, but when he saw the stone that Theodore used to crack the snails' shells on he fairly jumped for excitement, and ran off as hard as he could go to the cottage.

“Jock,” he cried to the Aberdeen puppy, when he got there, “bark all round the people of the cottage and make them come down to the old rockery—I've found Miss Amelia!”

So Miss Amelia was brought back to the cottage and was put to bed in the washhouse, and everybody was very pleased because they knew that she would be safe for the winter.

And now that winter had really come there was little to be seen of the People of Pudding Hill. Horace Hedgehog blocked up the entrance to his house, and he and Mrs. Hedgehog and Sam and Sue rolled themselves into tight prickly balls until the evenings grew warm again. The Field Mice came out of the garden into the washhouse, where they tore up a lot of old newspapers to make nests, for which they will probably get into serious trouble. Mr. Tom moved from the verandah rail to the mat in front of the kitchen range. Sometimes he had boiling water or a little hot fat spilt on him, but he didn't really mind as long as he could keep warm. Jock grew a very thick coat with bristly hairs in it, and went for long walks, and Peter Possum and Joe the More-pork shared the same house up in the old gum tree and had a special kind of door which the North Wind could not blow open however hard it tried.

The birds did not move very far from the drying-green, and kept hungry eyes on the back door of the cottage. Occasionally, Johnny Black would fly up into the macrocarpa tree and sing one of his songs to thank the people of the cottage for his breakfast, and let them know that the summer days would soon return, and the little People of Pudding Hill would have some more adventures.