So, at least, thinks the blackbird, which gladly makes a meal of the insect with the long beak when fruits grow rare at the end of autumn.

It makes a small mouthful, but a tasty, and is a pleasant change after such olives as yet withstand the cold.
And what without the blackbird and its rivalry of song were the reawakening of the woods in spring?
Were man to disappear, annihilated by his own foolish errors, the festival of the life-bringing season would be no less worthily observed, celebrated by the fluting of the yellow-billed songster.
To the meritorious role of regaling the blackbird, the minstrel of the forest, the Balaninus adds another--that of moderating the superfluity of vegetation.

Like all the mighty who are worthy of their strength, the oak is generous; it produces acorns by the bushel.

What could the earth do with such prodigality?
The forest would stifle itself for want of room; excess would ruin the necessary.
But no sooner is this abundance of food produced than there is an influx from every side of consumers only too eager to abate this inordinate production.

The field-mouse, a native of the woods, stores acorns in a gravel-heap near its hay-lined nest.