She coolly retreated a few paces to a Virginia creeper, and swung herself down, as I suppose she had come up—namely, paw over paw.
“The naughty cat has gone, birdies,” I said, and went back to my room.
To prove the nervousness of robins, I will only have to say that in a few seconds Dixie was screaming again. This was pure reminiscence. The cat had gone, there was nothing there; but this time he acted worse than he had yet done, and he frightened one bird into hysterics. I heard this one knocking himself against the wire netting like a catapult.
How could any bird head stand that dreadful thumping? I hurried to the spot, and to my dismay discovered that the bird gone crazy with terror was my baby cardinal.
I descended upon him, clasped him in my hand—though I always prefer to catch a bird in a cloth—and absolutely flew to the veranda-room. In there it was dark, and he could not see to beat himself against the windows.
His breath was coming in fluttering gasps—of course he thought the cat had him. I put him quickly on the floor and ran from the room.
I was afraid he was dying. “If I lose him,” I said to myself, “how can I forgive that cat?”
I scarcely dared look from my window in the morning; but there, oh, joyful sight! was my beloved baby bird running to and fro along the windows of the veranda-room, trying to get out.
I speedily opened the door, and he flew to his parents, who were delighted to see him.
Strange to say, though they beat him, they would scream angrily at me if I approached too near the little fellow. They kept up a kind of interest in him, though they chastised him.