My Robin
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My Robin


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The Project Gutenberg EBook of My Robin, by Frances Hodgson Burnett #13 in our series by Frances HodgsonBurnettCopyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country beforedownloading or redistributing this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do notchange or edit the header without written permission.Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom ofthis file. Included is important information about your specific rights and restrictions in how the file may be used. Youcan also find out about how to make a donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved.**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts****eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971*******These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****Title: My RobinAuthor: Frances Hodgson BurnettRelease Date: March, 2004 [EBook #5304] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was firstposted on June 25, 2002]Edition: 10Language: English*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY ROBIN ***Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.MY ROBIN BY FRANCES HODGSON BURNETTILLUSTRATED BY ALFRED BRENNANMY ROBINThere came to me among the letters I received last spring one which ...



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The Project Gutenberg EBook of My Robin, byFrances Hodgson Burnett #13 in our series byFrances Hodgson BurnettsCuorpey triog chth leacwk st haer ec ocphyarniggihnt gl aawll so fvoerr  ytohue r wcooruldn.t rByebefore downloading or redistributing this or anyother Project Gutenberg eBook.vTiheiws inhge atdhiesr  Psrhoojeulcdt  bGeu ttehne bfierrsgt  tfihlien. gP lseeaesne  wdhoe nnotremove it. Do not change or edit the headerwithout written permission.Please read the "legal small print," and otherinformation about the eBook and ProjectGutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included isimportant information about your specific rights andrestrictions in how the file may be used. You canalso find out about how to make a donation toProject Gutenberg, and how to get involved.**Welcome To The World of Free Plain VanillaElectronic Texts****eBooks Readable By Both Humans and ByComputers, Since 1971*******These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousandsof Volunteers!*****Title: My Robin
Author: Frances Hodgson BurnettRelease Date: March, 2004 [EBook #5304] [Yes,we are more than one year ahead of schedule][This file was first posted on June 25, 2002]Edition: 10Language: English*E*B* OSTOAK RMT YO RF OTBHIEN  *P*R*OJECT GUTENBERGtPhreo dOuncliende  bDyi sJturilibeutt eSdu tPhreorloafrned,a dCinhga rlTeesa Fmr.anks and
HMOY DRGOSBOINN  BBYU RFRNAETNTCESILLUSTRATED BY ALFRED BRENNANMY ROBINThere came to me among the letters I received lastspring one which touched me very closely. It was aletter full of delightful things but the delightful thingwhich so reached my soul was a question. Thewriter had been reading "The Secret Garden" andher question was this: "Did you own the original ofthe robin? He could not have been a mere creatureof fantasy. I feel sure you owned him." I wasthrilled to the centre of my being. Here was someone who plainly had been intimate with robins—English robins. I wrote and explained as far as onecould in a letter what I am now going to relate indetail.
I did not own the robin—he owned me—or perhapswe owned each other. He was an English robin andhe was a PERSON—not a mere bird. An Englishrobin differs greatly from the American one. He ismuch smaller and quite differently shaped. Hisbody is daintily round and plump, his legs aredelicately slender. He is a graceful little patricianwith an astonishing allurement of bearing. His eyeis large and dark and dewy; he wears a tight littlered satin waistcoat on his full round breast andevery tilt of his head, every flirt of his wing isinstinct with dramatic significance. He isfascinatingly conceited—he burns with curiosity—he is determined to engage in social relations atalmost any cost and his raging jealousy of attentionpaid to less worthy objects than himself drives himat times to efforts to charm and distract which areirresistible. An intimacy with a robin—an Englishrobin—is a liberal education.This particular one I knew in my rose-garden inKent. I feel sure he was born there and for asummer at least believed it to be the world. It wasa lovesome, mystic place, shut in partly by old redbrick walls against which fruit trees were trainedand partly by a laurel hedge with a wood behind it.It was my habit to sit and write there under anaged writhen tree, gray with lichen and festoonedwith roses. The soft silence of it— the remotealoofness—were the most perfect ever dreamedof. But let me not be led astray by the garden. Imust be firm and confine myself to the Robin. Thegarden shall be another story. There were so manypeople in this garden—people with feathers, or fur
—who, because I sat so quietly, did not mind me inthe least, that it was not a surprising thing when Ilooked up one summer morning to see a small birdhopping about the grass a yard or so away fromme. The surprise was not that he was there butthat he STAYED there—or rather he continued tohop—with short reflective-looking hops and thatwhile hopping he looked at me— not in a furtiveflighty way but rather as a person might tentativelyregard a very new acquaintance. The absolutetruth of the matter I had reason to believe laterwas that he did not know I was a person. I mayhave been the first of my species he had seen inthis rose-garden world of his and he thought I wasonly another kind of robin. I was too— though thatwas a secret of mine and nobody but myself knewit. Because of this fact I had the power of holdingmyself STILL—quite STILL and filling myself withsoftly alluring tenderness of the tenderest whenany little wild thing came near me. "What do you doto make him come to you like that?" some oneasked me a month or so later. "What do you DO?""I don't know what I do exactly," I said. "Exceptthat I hold myself very still and feel like a robin."You can only do that with a tiny wild thing by beingso tender of him— of his little timidities and feelings—so adoringly anxious not to startle him orsuggest by any movement the possibility of yourbeing a creature who COULD HURT—that yourvery yearning to understand his tiny hopes andfears and desires makes you for the time cease tobe quite a mere human thing and gives youanother and more exquisite sense which speaks
for you without speech.As I sat and watched him I held myself softly stilland felt just that. I did not know he was a robin.The truth was that he was too young at that time tolook like one, but I did not know that either. He wasplainly not a thrush, or a linnet or a sparrow or astarling or a blackbird. He was a littleindeterminate-colored bird and he had no red onhis breast. And as I sat and gazed at him he gazedat me as one quite without prejudice unless it mightbe 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 myharmlessness, had ever hopped and REMAINED.Many had perched for a moment in the grass or ona nearby bough, had trilled or chirped or secured ascurrying gold and green beetle and flown away.But none had stayed to inquire—to reflect—even toseem—if one dared be so bold as to hope such athing—to make mysterious, almost occultadvances towards intimacy. Also I had neverbefore heard of such a thing happening to any onehowsoever bird loving. Birds are creatures whomust be wooed and it must be delicate and carefulwooing which allures them into friendship.I held my soft stillness. Would he stay? Could it bethat the last hop was nearer? Yes, it was. Themoment was a breathless one. Dare one believethat the next was nearer still—and the next—andthe next—and that the two yards of distance had
become scarcely one—and that within that radiushe was soberly hopping round my very feet with hisquite unafraid eye full upon me. This was what washappening. It may not seem exciting but it was.That a little wild thing should come to one unaskedwas of a thrillingness touched with awe.Without stirring a muscle I began to make low,soft, little sounds to him—very low and verycaressing indeed—softer than one makes to ababy. I wanted to weave a spell—to establishmental communication—to make Magic. And as Iuttered the tiny sounds he hopped nearer andnearer."Oh! to think that you will come as near as that!" Iwhispered to him. "You KNOW. You know thatnothing in the world would make me put out myhand or startle you in the least tiniest way. Youknow it because you are a real person as well as alovely—lovely little bird thing. You know it becauseyou are a soul."tBheact atuhisse  wofa st hiwsh faitr stM imstorrensisn gM I akryn ethwougyheta rws hleatne rshebent down in the Long Walk and "tried to makerobin sounds."I said it all in a whisper and I think the words musthave sounded like robin sounds because helistened with interest and at last—miracle ofmiracles as it seemed to me—he actually flutteredup on to a small shrub not two yards away from myknee and sat there as one who was pleased with
the topic of conversation.I did not move of course, I sat still and waited hispleasure. Not for mines of rubies would I havelifted a finger.I think he stayed near me altogether about half anhour. Then he disappeared. Where or even exactlywhen I did not know. One moment he was hoppingamong some of the rose bushes and then he was.enogThis, in fact, was his little mysterious way from firstto last. Through all the months of our deliciousintimacy he never let me know where he lived. Iknew it was in the rose-garden—but that was all.His extraordinary freedom from timorousness wassomething to think over. After reflecting upon him agood deal I thought I had reached an explanation.He had been born in the rose-garden and being ofa home- loving nature he had declined to follow therest of his family when they had made their firstflight over the wall into the rose-walk or over thelaurel hedge into the pheasant cover behind. Hehad stayed in the rose world and then had feltlonely. Without father or mother or sisters orbrothers desolateness of spirit fell upon him. Hesaw a creature—I insist on believing that hethought it another order of robin—and approachedto see what it would say.Its whole bearing was confidence inspiring. It madesoftly alluring—if unexplainable—sounds. He felt itsfriendliness and affection. It was curious to look at
and far too large for any ordinary nest. It plainlycould not fly. But there was not a shadow ofinimical sentiment in it. Instinct told him that. Itadmired him, it wanted him to remain near, therewas a certain comfort in its caressing atmosphere.He liked it and felt less desolate. He would returnto it again.The next day summer rains kept me in the house.The next I went to the rose-garden in the morningand sat down under my tree to work. I had notbeen there half an hour when I felt I must lift myeyes and look. A little indeterminate-colored birdwas hopping quietly about in the grass—quiteaware of me as his dew-bright eye manifested. Hehad come again—of intention—because we weremates.It was the beginning of an intimacy not to bedescribed unless one filled a small volume. Fromthat moment we never doubted each other for onesecond. He knew and I knew. Each morning when Icame into the rose- garden he came to call on meand discover things he wanted to know concerningrobins of my size and unusual physicalconformation. He did not understand but he wasattracted by me. Each day I held myself still andtried to make robin sounds expressive of adoringtenderness and he came each day a little nearer.At last arrived a day when as I softly left my seatand moved about the garden he actually quietlyhopped 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 ofLaurette Messimy roses and I became aware thathe had arrived in his usual mysterious way withoutwarning. He was standing in the grass and when Iturned my eyes upon him I only just saved myselffrom starting—which would have meant disaster. Isaw upon his breast the first dawning of a flush ofcolor— more tawny than actual red at that stage—but it hinted at revelations."Further subterfuge is useless," I said to him. "Youare betrayed. You are a robin."And he did not attempt to deny it either then or atany future time. In less than two weeks herevealed a tight, glossy little bright red satinwaistcoat and with it a certain youthful maturitysuch as one beholds in the wearer of a first dresssuit. His movements were more brisk and certain.He began to make little flights and little soundsthough for some time he made no attempt to sing.Instead of appearing suddenly in the grass at myfeet, a heavenly little rush of wings would[Illustration: A HEAVENLY RUSH OF WINGS]bring him to a bough over my head or a twig quitenear me where he would tilt daintily, taking hissilent but quite responsive part in the conversationswhich always took place between us. It was I whotalked— telling him how I loved him—how satin redhis waistcoat was—how large and bright his eyes—