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Updated: May 15, 2025
To-night the spell was on him again, and he sat bulked up in his chair, rocklike and immovable. From the open door of the next room he could hear Necia and the little ones. She had made them ready for bed, and was telling them the tale of the snow-bird's spot. "So when all the other birds had failed," he heard her say, "the little snowbird asked for a chance to try.
Catharine in distributing the beads and cloth took care that the best portion should fall to the grand-daughter of the chief, the pretty good-humoured Snowbird.
He breeds here, and is not esteemed a snowbird at all, as he disappears at the near approach of winter, and returns again in spring, like the song sparrow, and is not in any way associated with the cold and the snow. So different are the habits of birds in different localities. Even the crow does not winter here, and is seldom seen after December or before March.
The Mocha Kid, in particular, was addicted to reminiscence of an incriminating sort, and he totally ignored Rouletta's protests at sharing the secrets of his guilty past. As for the Snowbird, he was fond of telling her fairy-stories. They were queer fairy-stories, all beginning in the same way: "Once upon a time there was a beautiful Princess and her name was Rouletta."
You know I am sometimes called the Snowbird." Peter nodded. "So I have heard," said he, "though I think that name really belongs to Snowflake the Snow Bunting." "Quite right, Peter, quite right," replied Slaty. "I much prefer my own name of Junco. My, these seeds are good!" All the time he was busily picking up seeds so tiny that Peter didn't even see them.
"If there is no atmosphere on these mountain tops which we see or, which we saw before we fell into this crevasse we cannot get off this plane. We are imprisoned on the low ground. The lack of air will keep us from climbing the mountains." "Or from flying over them if we can get the Snowbird into commission again," added Jack. "Every necessity brings its own invention," said the professor.
The Snowbird was fluttering over the ground like a wounded bird, while so black were their surroundings that none of the party could distinguish anything of nearby objects. The clouds had broken but little, and only for a moment. "She's down!" suddenly shouted Mark Sampson, and the flying machine jounced on its rubber-tired wheels, and then struck the ground again almost immediately.
I could see the beautiful, white Snowbird at anchor, looking very small, and the sunlight played on the brass binnacle which shone like a burning light. Near it, very lowly and humble, rode the poor little fishing smacks that are far more important to the world's welfare than our expensive plaything.
What little money he possessed after leaving Cragg's Ridge was exhausted, his supplies were gone, and his boots and clothes were patched with deer hide. In the Snowbird Lake country, a week after he left Cassidy in his paradise at Wollaston, he fell in with good fortune. Two trappers had come in from Churchill. One of them was sick, and the other needed help in the building of their winter cabin.
John's to the dry-dock. You know how pleasantly Daddy speaks to people, and how they detect under his words a firmness which effectively prevents long discussion. Stefansson is really a racing skipper, but he likes his berth on the Snowbird and said nothing more.
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