The Story of a Robin

by Agnes S. Underwood

“I’ll try, uncle,” whispered Phœbe; and Uncle Roger kissed her.

You all know the difference well, I don’t doubt, betwixt trying and doing—how easy it seems to perform a promise at first, when resolves are fresh and strong, but how each day takes, as it were, a little bit of strength out of the wish to do the disagreeable duty. Little Phœbe was truly anxious to overcome her bad habit; and I can also say that, though apple-pies and custards, and her dear little cousin Mary-Anne’s company, had at first given her an inducement to do so, yet after a little that part of it became very faint indeed in comparison with the wish to succeed in fulfilling her promise to Uncle Roger.

Difficult enough the task was; and sometimes Phœbe felt as if the month would never pass. But the days went on somehow, and Mrs. Copland was much amused, and secretly much pleased, to see the important air with which her little daughter would retire daily to her small bedroom, next her father and mother’s, and after a great deal of knocking about and noise overhead, would run downstairs, and coming to Mrs. Copland, say, “Please, mother, come and look at my drawer. I’m sure it’s tidy.”

After a little time had passed, Mrs. Copland explained to her daughter the secret of true order; which is, not to keep things untidy, and to have constantly to put them to rights, but to keep them right—to put everything in its own place at once. This was a new part to learn in Phœbe’s lesson, but she tried it, and heartily too; and things were going on in this way when, just two days before the month was over, there came a sad misfortune to her, which took away the hopes of apple-pies and other things which her birthday was to bring her.

All this time she had been going regularly to Mrs. Nott’s school, and the schoolmistress was much surprised at the change in her careless little pupil. Her companions, too, could not tell what had come to Phœbe Copland; and as for sly Margaret Prettyman, she was filled with dislike and envy of her little rival; for Phœbe, having put aside her careless habits, took her place as first in the class, and Margaret had been first till now.

On this particular afternoon Mrs. Nott had given her girls an additional task to learn; and Phœbe, having a quarter of an hour to spare, sat down, as was her habit sometimes, to look over the lesson before leaving school. She was putting up her books, when one of the other girls, Esther Heywood, came to her with a message from her (Esther’s) mother, asking Phœbe to step down to the Mill Farm, where the Heywoods lived. They had got a jar of fine citron-preserves, which the sailor son, Jem, had brought from across the seas to his mother; and she was going to send some over to Mrs. Copland to taste.

“You might leave your books here,” said Esther, “and I’ll walk back a bit with you. We’ll get them when we come.”

The citron-preserves were very, very good, and Phœbe was kept a little while at the Mill Farm to taste them, and to hear the wonderful things which Jem Heywood had to tell about the parrots and the beautiful birds in the countries where he had been; and then Phœbe started on her way home over the fields, and Esther with her. Sailor Jem said he’d “go a bit too with the girls,” to see them “under way,” as he called it; and it ended by Esther and Jem going the whole way with her, to carry her books, which they got as they passed the school-house.

All the evening Jem was telling them such funny stories that she could not attend to her lessons, but went to bed quite tired with laughing, and dreamed that she was a parrot, and that Jem Heywood was teaching her tasks off by heart.

Next morning, with the sunshine, up jumped Phœbe, to learn her lessons before going to school. She felt very happy. The next day but one was her birthday; and next day itself Uncle Roger would be over from Lady’s Mead, she knew, and then she would tell him how faithfully she had kept her promise; and how pleased and kind he would look—she could fancy she saw his face so well. And singing a little song to herself, Phœbe sat down at her bedroom window, opening her books out before her on her knee. But there were only three books there, and she ought to have four.