He knew me as well as that. He stayed until he had learned
all he wished to know about garden hats and then he lightly flew away.
From that time each day drew us closer to each other. He began to perch
on twigs only a few inches from my face and listen while I whispered to
him--yes, he LISTENED and made answer with chirps. Nothing else would
describe it. As I wrote he would alight on my manuscript paper and try
to read. Sometimes I thought he was a little offended because he found
my handwriting so bad that he could not understand it. He would take
crumbs out of my hand, he would alight on my chair or my shoulder. The
instant I opened the little door in the leaf-covered garden wall I would
be greeted by the darling little rush of wings and he was beside me. And
he always came from nowhere and disappeared into space.
That, through the whole summer--was his rarest fascination. Perhaps he
was not a real robin. Perhaps he was a fairy. Who knows? Among the many
house parties staying with me he was a subject of thrilled interest.
People knew of him who had not seen him and it became a custom with
callers to say: "May we go into the rose-garden and see The Robin?" One
of my American guests said he was uncanny and called him "The Goblin
Robin." No one had ever seen a thing so curiously human--so much more
than mere bird.
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