My Robin | Page 4

on my
head.
Did I make myself still then? Did I stir by a single hairbreadth? Who
does not know? I scarcely let myself breathe. I could not believe that
such a thing of pure joy could be true.
But in a minute I realized that he at least was not afraid to move. He
was perfectly at home. He hopped about the brim and examined the
roses with delicate pecks. That I was under the hat apparently only gave
him confidence. He knew me as well as that. He stayed until he had
learned all he wished to know about garden hats and then he lightly
flew away.
From that time each day drew us closer to each other. He began to
perch on twigs only a few inches from my face and listen while I
whispered to him--yes, he LISTENED and made answer with chirps.
Nothing else would describe it. As I wrote he would alight on my
manuscript paper and try to read. Sometimes I thought he was a little
offended because he found my handwriting so bad that he could not
understand it. He would take crumbs out of my hand, he would alight
on my chair or my shoulder. The instant I opened the little door in the
leaf-covered garden wall I would be greeted by the darling little rush of
wings and he was beside me. And he always came from nowhere and
disappeared into space.
That, through the whole summer--was his rarest fascination. Perhaps he
was not a real robin. Perhaps he was a fairy. Who knows? Among the
many house parties staying with me he was a subject of thrilled interest.
People knew of him who had not seen him and it became a custom with
callers to say: "May we go into the rose-garden and see The Robin?"
One of my American guests said he was uncanny and called him "The
Goblin Robin." No one had ever seen a thing so curiously human--so
much more than mere bird.

When I took callers to the rose-garden he was exquisitely polite. He
always came when I stood under my tree and called--but he never at
such times MET me with his rush to the little door. He would perch
near me and talk but there was a difference. Certain exquisite intimate
charms he kept for me alone.
I wondered when he would begin to sing. One morning the sun being
strong enough to pierce through the leaves of my tree I had a large
Japanese tent umbrella arranged so that it shaded my table as I wrote.
Suddenly I heard a robin song which sounded as if it were being trilled
from some tree at a little distance from where I sat. It was so pretty that
I leaned forward to see exactly where the singer perched. I made a
delicious discovery. He was not on a tree at all. He was perched upon
the very end of one of the bamboo ribs of my big flowery umbrella. He
was my own Robin and there he sat singing to me his first tiny song--
showing me that he had found out how to do it.
The effect of singing at a distance was produced by the curious fact that
he was singing WITH HIS BILL CLOSED, his darling scarlet throat
puffed out and tremulous with the captive trills.
Perhaps a robin's first song is always of this order. I do not know. I
only know that this was his "earlier manner." My enraptured delight I
expressed to him in my most eloquent phrases. I praised him--I
flattered him. I made him believe that no robin had really ever sung
before. He was much pleased and flew down on to the table to hear all
about it and incite me to further effort.
In a few days he had learned to sing perfectly, not with the low
distant-sounding note but with open beak and clear brilliant little
roulades and trills. He grew prouder and prouder. When he saw I was
busy he would tilt on a nearby bough and call me with flirtatious,
provocative outbreaking of song. He knew that it was impossible for
any one to resist him--any one in the world. Of course I would get up
and stand beneath his tree with my face upturned and tell him that his
charm, his beauty, his fascination and my love were beyond the power
of words to express. He knew that would happen and revelled in it. His
tiny airs and graces, his devices to attract and absorb attention was
unending. He invented new ones every day and each was more
enslaving than the last.
Could it be that he was guilty--when he met other robins--of boasting

of his conquest of me and of my