In another moment the Rook, who was passing, had joined them on the lime-tree bough, and together the three friends watched the sun setting, and wondered where the swallows had got to by that time.
The evening was chilly, and a damp mist lay over the meadows, a warning to the birds that it was time to be going home.
The Three Friends––the Robin, the Rook, and the Blackbird.
“Yes,” said the Blackbird reflectively, taking up the conversation where he had left off, “I ought to be very grateful to you, Mr. Rook,––and to you, my dear little 85 friend,” he said, turning to the Robin. “You, Mr. Rook, have taught me a great deal, and given me a real interest in the creatures and things about me, which I should not have had otherwise. Above all, you have taught me the great lesson of faith and trust. And you, dear little red-breasted friend, have taught me the sweet lesson of content, and not that alone, but you have shown me that each of us in our small way should try to make the world a little better and brighter for those around us. You do it, Mr. Rook; you do it, little Robin; Willie and Alice do it, with their kind thoughtfulness for us, and why should not I try to do it also,––I will, and this very winter too.”
All the birds were grave and silent for a few moments, and then, as they took an affectionate leave of each other before parting, the Rook said, “There was a pretty little poem once written about the Robin. I will repeat it to you before we separate:
Each day now the sun rose later and went to bed earlier. Willie and Alice still ran about the garden, stamping their little feet among the dry, crisp leaves, and picking up the beech-nuts which strewed the ground.
However, as time went on, they came less out of doors, for cold and wet days followed each other, when all that the Blackbird saw of his little friends were the two small faces pressed against the dining-room window-pane, looking wistfully out as the clouds drove past, and the rain pattered against the glass.