curious to look at and far too large for any ordinary nest. It plainly
could not fly. But there was not a shadow of inimical sentiment in it.
Instinct told him that. It admired him, it wanted him to remain near,
there was a certain comfort in its caressing atmosphere. He liked it and
felt less desolate. He would return to it again.

The next day summer rains kept me in the house. The next I went to the
rose-garden in the morning and sat down under my tree to work. I had not
been there half an hour when I felt I must lift my eyes and look. A
little indeterminate-colored bird was hopping quietly about in the
grass--quite aware of me as his dew-bright eye manifested. He had come
again--of intention--because we were mates.

It was the beginning of an intimacy not to be described unless one
filled a small volume. From that moment we never doubted each other for
one second. He knew and I knew. Each morning when I came into the rose-
garden he came to call on me and discover things he wanted to know
concerning robins of my size and unusual physical conformation. He did
not understand but he was attracted by me. Each day I held myself still
and tried to make robin sounds expressive of adoring tenderness and he
came each day a little nearer. At last arrived a day when as I softly
left my seat and moved about the garden he actually quietly hopped after
me.

I wish I could remember exactly what length of time elapsed before I
knew he was really a robin. An ornithologist would doubtless know but I
do not. But one morning I was bending over a bed of Laurette Messimy
roses and I became aware that he had arrived in his usual mysterious way
without warning. He was standing in the grass and when I turned my eyes
upon him I only just saved myself from starting--which would have meant