gardener with whom I was obliged to consult frequently. When he came
into the rose-garden for orders Tweetie at once appeared.

He followed us, hopping in the grass or from rose bush to rose bush. No
word of ours escaped him. If our conversation on the enthralling
subjects of fertilizers and aphides seemed in its earnest absorption to
verge upon the emotional and tender he interfered at once. He commanded
my attention. He perched on nearby boughs and endeavored to distract me.
He fluttered about and called me with chirps. His last resource was
always to fly to the topmost twig of an apple tree and begin to sing his
most brilliant song in his most thrilling tone and with an affected
manner. Naturally we were obliged to listen and talk about him. Even old
Barton's weather-beaten apple face would wrinkle into smiles.

"He's doin' that to make us look at him," he would say. "That's what
he's doin' it for. He can't abide not to be noticed."

But it was not only his vanity which drew him to me. He loved me. The
low song trilled in his little pulsating scarlet throat was mine. He
sang it only to me--and he would never sing it when any one else was
there to hear. When we were quite alone with only roses and bees and
sunshine and silence about us, when he swung on some spray quite close
to me and I stood and talked to him in whispers--then he would answer
me--each time I paused--with the little "far away" sounding trills--the
sweetest, most wonderful little sounds in the world. A clever person who
knew more of the habits of birds than I did told me a most curious
thing.

"That is his little mating song," he said. "You have inspired a hopeless
passion in a robin."