I praised him--I flattered
him. I made him believe that no robin had really ever sung before. He
was much pleased and flew down on to the table to hear all about it and
incite me to further effort.
In a few days he had learned to sing perfectly, not with the low
distant-sounding note but with open beak and clear brilliant little
roulades and trills. He grew prouder and prouder. When he saw I was busy
he would tilt on a nearby bough and call me with flirtatious,
provocative outbreaking of song. He knew that it was impossible for any
one to resist him--any one in the world. Of course I would get up and
stand beneath his tree with my face upturned and tell him that his
charm, his beauty, his fascination and my love were beyond the power of
words to express. He knew that would happen and revelled in it. His tiny
airs and graces, his devices to attract and absorb attention was
unending. He invented new ones every day and each was more enslaving
than the last.
Could it be that he was guilty--when he met other robins--of boasting of
his conquest of me and of my utter subjugation? I cannot believe it
possible. Also I never saw other robins accost him or linger in their
passage through the rose-garden to exchange civilities. And yet a very
strange thing occurred on one occasion.
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