"Yes, Rosy. There is a pretty little robin; let us go round the other side and see if we can make him come out with these crumbs which I have brought with me."
So they went softly to the gate, and were just going in, when papa said,—
"Stop, Rosy; look what that man has got in his hand."
Then she looked, and saw a man with a very long gun and two dogs.
"What is he going to do, papa?" asked the little girl, drawing back; "will he shoot us if we go in?"
"O, no, Rosy; don't be afraid. It is the robin that he wants to shoot and not us. So now you see how it is that the dicky-birds don't sing much at Cannes. It is because they shoot so many of them."
Poor little Rosy! She loved so much to watch the little birds and hear them sing! And when she thought of this dear robin being shot quite dead, and that perhaps there was a nest somewhere with little ones who would have no mamma, she began to cry, and to call the man "a cruel fellow."
She was not much comforted by being told that such little birds were eaten there; so that if the man could shoot one, he would get some money for it which might buy bread for his little ones. But she was rather glad to hear that the little robins must be able by that time of year to take care of themselves, and had left the nest some time; and much more pleased, when, soon after, she saw the dear robin fly right away, so that the man with the gun was not likely to shoot that one at any rate.
Then papa said, "I shouldn't wonder if mamma would like to go out this morning. Shall we go back and see?"