“‘Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,’ pealed the bell, and again the saucy fellows dived and dodged, winked and blinked their little bright eyes, and nodded ‘It’s all right.’
“I was completely conquered; so now I let them take their breakfast first, and then I feast on what they leave behind. Very often I find marks of their little beaks in the ruddiest berries on my plate, but they, in return, cheer me with their fullest, choicest notes, give life and brightness to my quiet garden, and guard my young plants from the ravages of devouring insects, and attract other birds, with their richer notes, to their banqueting spot.”
“Aunt Emma,” said Artie, “do you think those little thieving fellows knew you?”
“Indeed, I flatter myself, Artie, that they consider me their best friend. There is scarcely a morning, from the time when the last snow-flakes of Winter melt away, that some one or more of these gay fellows do not come to the window-sill of my sewing-room, chirp about me, and tell a long story of joy or grievance. Sometimes I fancy it’s a complaint of some fickle Jenny Wren who has left her true love for a gay English Sparrow, and again another has won for his mate a saucy Mattie Martin, and comes to me for my best wishes and the promise of my ends of thread and bits of wool to furnish the snug little home he is going to build for his little bride, up in the branches of my apple tree.”
“And does they tell you of the poor little Cock Robin that the naughty Sparrow killed with his bow-arrow?” questioned Rosie.
“I will tell you, Pet, if you are not already tired of my stories, a tale something like your Cock Robin.”
“Oh, do, do, please, Auntie, we’d never be tired of stories;” and the children stowed themselves in a little heap on the grass, at their Auntie’s feet, leaned their elbows on their knees, and rested their chubby cheeks on their hands, ready for any given quantity of tales.
“One day,” continued Aunt Emma, “having a bad headache, I sat in the part of my room farthest from the window, to be away from the light. Presently I heard a mournful sort of song, which soon became quite pitiful, and then came a quick, sharp pecking at my window-pane. I could not resist that appeal, and as I opened my window a Robin flew quickly in, fluttered in circles over my head, uttering pitiful cries. I followed him out into the garden till, near the old apple-tree, he disappeared under a bush. Carefully putting aside, with my hands, the leaves and branches, I found a poor, tiny, half-dressed Robin baby, uttering such little, sick, feeble peeps, I seem to hear them now. I think from the twinkle I afterward used to see in his eyes, that he was rather an adventurous young spirit, and very likely his Papa was a widower, for I never saw but the one parent.