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
disaster. I saw upon his breast the first dawning of a flush of color--
more tawny than actual red at that stage--but it hinted at revelations.
"Further subterfuge is useless," I said to him. "You are betrayed. You
are a robin."
And he did not attempt to deny it either then or at any future time. In
less than two weeks he revealed a tight, glossy little bright red satin
waistcoat and with it a certain youthful maturity such as one beholds in
the wearer of a first dress suit. His movements were more brisk and
certain. He began to make little flights and little sounds though for
some time he made no attempt to sing. Instead of appearing suddenly in
the grass at my feet, a heavenly little rush of wings would
[Illustration: A HEAVENLY RUSH OF WINGS]
bring him to a bough over my head or a twig quite near me where he would
tilt daintily, taking his silent but quite responsive part in the
conversations which always took place between us.
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