One summer evening I went by myself after tea into a steep little field
at the back of our house, with an old stone-quarry at the top, on the
ledges of which, where the earth had settled, I used to play at making
gardens. And there, lying on a bit of very stony ground, half on the
stones and half on the grass, was a dead robin-redbreast. I love robins
very much, and it was not because I wanted one to die, but because I
thought that if one did die, I should so like to bury him, that I had
wished to find a dead robin ever since I became a Brother of Pity. It
was rather late, but it wanted nearly an hour to my usual bedtime, so I
thought I would go home at once for my dress and spade and bier, and for
some roses. For I had resolved to bury this (my first robin-redbreast)
in a grave lined with rose-leaves, and to give him a wreath of
forget-me-nots.

Just as I was going I heard a loud buzz above my head, and something hit
me in the face. It was a beetle, whirring about in the air, and as I
turned to leave poor Robin the beetle sat down on him, on the middle of
his red breast, and by still hearing the buzzing, I found that another
beetle was whirling and whirring just above my head in the air. I like
beetles (especially the flying watchmen), and these ones were black too;
so I said, for fun, "You've got on your black things, and if you'll take
care of the body till I get my spade you shall be Brothers of Pity."

I ran home, and I need not have gone indoors at all, for I keep my cloak
and my spade and the bier in the summer-house, but the bits of wood were
in the nursery cupboard, so, after I had got some good roses, and was
quite ready, I ran up-stairs, and there, to my great vexation, Nurse met
me, and said I was to go to bed.