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MY ROBIN
BY
FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT

ILLUSTRATED
BY
ALFRED BRENNAN






MY ROBIN

There came to me among the letters I received last spring one which
touched me very closely. It was a letter full of delightful things but
the delightful thing which so reached my soul was a question. The writer
had been reading "The Secret Garden" and her question was this: "Did you
own the original of the robin? He could not have been a mere creature of
fantasy. I feel sure you owned him." I was thrilled to the centre of my
being. Here was some one who plainly had been intimate with
robins--English robins. I wrote and explained as far as one could in a
letter what I am now going to relate in detail.

I did not own the robin--he owned me--or perhaps we owned each other.
He was an English robin and he was a PERSON--not a mere bird. An English
robin differs greatly from the American one. He is much smaller and
quite differently shaped. His body is daintily round and plump, his legs
are delicately slender. He is a graceful little patrician with an
astonishing allurement of bearing. His eye is large and dark and dewy;
he wears a tight little red satin waistcoat on his full round breast and
every tilt of his head, every flirt of his wing is instinct with
dramatic significance. He is fascinatingly conceited--he burns with
curiosity--he is determined to engage in social relations at almost any
cost and his raging jealousy of attention paid to less worthy objects
than himself drives him at times to efforts to charm and distract which
are irresistible. An intimacy with a robin--an English robin--is a
liberal education.

This particular one I knew in my rose-garden in Kent. I feel sure he was
born there and for a summer at least believed it to be the world. It was
a lovesome, mystic place, shut in partly by old red brick walls against
which fruit trees were trained and partly by a laurel hedge with a wood
behind it. It was my habit to sit and write there under an aged writhen
tree, gray with lichen and festooned with roses. The soft silence of
it--the remote aloofness--were the most perfect ever dreamed of. But let
me not be led astray by the garden. I must be firm and confine myself to
the Robin. The garden shall be another story.  There were so many people
in this garden--people with feathers, or fur--who, because I sat so
quietly, did not mind me in the least, that it was not a surprising
thing when I looked up one summer morning to see a small bird hopping
about the grass a yard or so away from me. The surprise was not that he
was there but that he STAYED there--or rather he continued to hop--with
short reflective-looking hops and that while hopping he looked at me--not
in a furtive flighty way but rather as a person might tentatively
regard a very new acquaintance. The absolute truth of the matter I had
reason to believe later was that he did not know I was a person. I may
have been the first of my species he had seen in this rose-garden world
of his and he thought I was only another kind of robin. I was
too--though that was a secret of mine and nobody but myself knew it.
Because of this fact I had the power of holding myself STILL--quite STILL
and filling myself with softly alluring tenderness of the tenderest when
any little wild thing came near me.  "What do you do to make him come to
you like that?" some one asked me a month or so later. "What do you DO?"
"I don't know what I do exactly," I said. "Except that I hold myself very
still and feel like a robin."

You can only do that with a tiny wild thing by being so tender of
him--of his little timidities and feelings--so adoringly anxious not to
startle him or suggest by any movement the possibility of your being a
creature who COULD HURT--that your very yearning to understand his tiny
hopes and fears and desires makes you for the time cease to be quite a
mere human thing and gives you another and more exquisite sense which
speaks for you without speech.

As I sat and watched him I held myself softly still and felt just that.
I did not know he was a robin. The truth was that he was too young at
that time to look like one, but I did not know that either. He was
plainly not a thrush, or a linnet or a sparrow or a starling or a
blackbird. He was a little indeterminate-colored bird and he had no red
on his breast. And as I sat and gazed at him he gazed at me as one quite
without prejudice unless it might be with the slightest tinge of
favor--and hopped--and hopped--and hopped.

That was the thrill and wonder of it. No bird, however evident his
acknowledgement of my harmlessness, had ever hopped and REMAINED. Many
had perched for a moment in the grass or on a nearby bough, had trilled
or chirped or secured a scurrying gold and green beetle and flown away.
But none had stayed to inquire--to reflect--even to seem--if one dared
be so bold as to hope such a thing--to make mysterious, almost occult
advances towards intimacy. Also I had never before heard of such a thing
happening to any one howsoever bird loving. Birds are creatures who must
be wooed and it must be delicate and careful wooing which allures them
into friendship.

I held my soft stillness. Would he stay? Could it be that the last hop
was nearer? Yes, it was. The moment was a breathless one. Dare one
believe that the next was nearer still--and the next--and the next--and
that the two yards of distance had become scarcely one--and that within
that radius he was soberly hopping round my very feet with his quite
unafraid eye full upon me. This was what was happening. It may not seem
exciting but it was. That a little wild thing should come to one unasked
was of a thrillingness touched with awe.

Without stirring a muscle I began to make low, soft, little sounds to
him--very low and very caressing indeed--softer than one makes to a
baby. I wanted to weave a spell--to establish mental communication--to
make Magic. And as I uttered the tiny sounds he hopped nearer and
nearer.

"Oh! to think that you will come as near as that!" I whispered to him.
"You KNOW. You know that nothing in the world would make me put out my
hand or startle you in the least tiniest way. You know it because you
are a real person as well as a lovely--lovely little bird thing. You
know it because you are a soul."

Because of this first morning I knew--years later--that this was what
Mistress Mary thought when she bent down in the Long Walk and "tried to
make robin sounds."

I said it all in a whisper and I think the words must have sounded like
robin sounds because he listened with interest and at last--miracle of
miracles as it seemed to me--he actually fluttered up on to a small
shrub not two yards away from my knee and sat there as one who was
pleased with the topic of conversation.

I did not move of course, I sat still and waited his pleasure. Not for
mines of rubies would I have lifted a finger.

I think he stayed near me altogether about half an hour. Then he
disappeared. Where or even exactly when I did not know. One moment he
was hopping among some of the rose bushes and then he was gone.

This, in fact, was his little mysterious way from first to last. Through
all the months of our delicious intimacy he never let me know where he
lived. I knew it was in the rose-garden--but that was all. His
extraordinary freedom from timorousness was something to think over.
After reflecting upon him a good deal I thought I had reached an
explanation. He had been born in the rose-garden and being of a
home-loving nature he had declined to follow the rest of his family when
they had made their first flight over the wall into the rose-walk or over
the laurel hedge into the pheasant cover behind. He had stayed in the
rose world and then had felt lonely. Without father or mother or sisters
or brothers desolateness of spirit fell upon him. He saw a creature--I
insist on believing that he thought it another order of robin--and
approached to see what it would say.

Its whole bearing was confidence inspiring. It made softly alluring--if
unexplainable--sounds. He felt its friendliness and affection. It was
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
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 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. It was I who
talked--telling him how I loved him--how satin red his waistcoat was--how
large and bright his eyes--how delicate and elegant his slender legs. I
flattered him a great deal. He adored flattery and I am sure he loved me
most when I told him that it was impossible to say anything which could
flatter him. It gave him confidence in my good taste.

[Illustration: A HEAVENLY RUSH OF WINGS]

One morning--a heavenly sunny one--I was conversing with him by the
Laurette Messimys again and he was evidently much pleased with the
things I said. Perhaps he liked my hat which was a large white one with
a wreath of roses round its crown. I saw him look at it and I gently
hinted that I had worn it in the hope that he would approve. I had
broken off a handful of coral pink Laurettes and was arranging them idly
when--he spread his wings in a sudden upward flight--a tiny swift flight
which ended--among the roses on my hat--the very hat on my head.

Did I make myself still then? Did I stir by a single hairbreadth? Who
does not know? I scarcely let myself breathe. I could not believe that
such a thing of pure joy could be true.

But in a minute I realized that he at least was not afraid to move. He
was perfectly at home. He hopped about the brim and examined the roses
with delicate pecks. That I was under the hat apparently only gave him
confidence. 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.

When I took callers to the rose-garden he was exquisitely polite. He
always came when I stood under my tree and called--but he never at such
times MET me with his rush to the little door. He would perch near me
and talk but there was a difference. Certain exquisite intimate charms
he kept for me alone.

I wondered when he would begin to sing. One morning the sun being strong
enough to pierce through the leaves of my tree I had a large Japanese
tent umbrella arranged so that it shaded my table as I wrote. Suddenly I
heard a robin song which sounded as if it were being trilled from some
tree at a little distance from where I sat. It was so pretty that I
leaned forward to see exactly where the singer perched. I made a
delicious discovery. He was not on a tree at all. He was perched upon
the very end of one of the bamboo ribs of my big flowery umbrella. He
was my own Robin and there he sat singing to me his first tiny
song--showing me that he had found out how to do it.

The effect of singing at a distance was produced by the curious fact
that he was singing WITH HIS BILL CLOSED, his darling scarlet throat
puffed out and tremulous with the captive trills.

Perhaps a robin's first song is always of this order. I do not know. I
only know that this was his "earlier manner." My enraptured delight I
expressed to him in my most eloquent phrases. 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. I was sitting at my table
expecting him and heard a familiar chirp. When I looked up he was atilt
upon the branch of an apple tree near by. I greeted him with little
whistles and twitters thinking of course that he would fly down to me
for our usual conversation. But though he chirped a reply and put his
head on one side engagingly he did not move from his bough.

"What is the matter with you?" I said. "Come down--come down, little
brother!"

But he did not come. He only sidled and twittered and stayed where he
was. This was so extraordinary that I got up and went to him. As I
looked