She'd always been a robin, and she knew how to build a nest; she liked to
order me about, too--she was one of that kind. But, of course, I wasn't
going to own that I didn't know anything about nest-building. I could
never have done anything with her in the world if I'd let her think she
knew as much as I did. So I just put things together in a way of my own,
and built a nest that would have made you weep! The bottom fell out of it
the first night. It nearly killed me."

"Did you fall out, too?" inquired Fairyfoot.

"Oh, no," answered the little man. "I meant that it nearly killed me to
think the eggs weren't in it at the time."

"What did you do about the nest?" asked Fairyfoot.

The little man winked in the most improper manner.

"Do?" he said. "I got mad, of course, and told her that if she hadn't
interfered, it wouldn't have happened; said it was exactly like a hen to
fly around giving advice and unsettling one's mind, and then complain if
things weren't right. I told her she might build the nest herself, if
she thought she could build a better one. She did it, too!" And he
winked again.

"Was it a better one?" asked Fairyfoot.

The little man actually winked a third time. "It may surprise you to hear
that it was," he replied; "but it didn't surprise me. By-the-by," he
added, with startling suddenness, "what's your name, and what's the
matter with you?"