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diff --git a/old/myrbn10.txt b/old/myrbn10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a282686 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/myrbn10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,858 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of My Robin, by Frances Hodgson Burnett +#13 in our series by Frances Hodgson Burnett + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: My Robin + +Author: Frances Hodgson Burnett + +Release Date: March, 2004 [EBook #5304] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on June 25, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY ROBIN *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + +MY ROBIN +BY +FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT + +ILLUSTRATED +BY +ALFRED BRENNAN + + + + + + +MY ROBIN + +There came to me among the letters I received last spring one which +touched me very closely. It was a letter full of delightful things but +the delightful thing which so reached my soul was a question. The writer +had been reading "The Secret Garden" and her question was this: "Did you +own the original of the robin? He could not have been a mere creature of +fantasy. I feel sure you owned him." I was thrilled to the centre of my +being. Here was some one who plainly had been intimate with robins-- +English robins. I wrote and explained as far as one could in a letter +what I am now going to relate in detail. + +I did not own the robin--he owned me--or perhaps we owned each other. +He was an English robin and he was a PERSON--not a mere bird. An English +robin differs greatly from the American one. He is much smaller and +quite differently shaped. His body is daintily round and plump, his legs +are delicately slender. He is a graceful little patrician with an +astonishing allurement of bearing. His eye is large and dark and dewy; +he wears a tight little red satin waistcoat on his full round breast and +every tilt of his head, every flirt of his wing is instinct with +dramatic significance. He is fascinatingly conceited--he burns with +curiosity--he is determined to engage in social relations at almost any +cost and his raging jealousy of attention paid to less worthy objects +than himself drives him at times to efforts to charm and distract which +are irresistible. An intimacy with a robin--an English robin--is a +liberal education. + +This particular one I knew in my rose-garden in Kent. I feel sure he was +born there and for a summer at least believed it to be the world. It was +a lovesome, mystic place, shut in partly by old red brick walls against +which fruit trees were trained and partly by a laurel hedge with a wood +behind it. It was my habit to sit and write there under an aged writhen +tree, gray with lichen and festooned with roses. The soft silence of it-- +the remote aloofness--were the most perfect ever dreamed of. But let me +not be led astray by the garden. I must be firm and confine myself to +the Robin. The garden shall be another story. There were so many people +in this garden--people with feathers, or fur--who, because I sat so +quietly, did not mind me in the least, that it was not a surprising +thing when I looked up one summer morning to see a small bird hopping +about the grass a yard or so away from me. The surprise was not that he +was there but that he STAYED there--or rather he continued to hop--with +short reflective-looking hops and that while hopping he looked at me-- +not in a furtive flighty way but rather as a person might tentatively +regard a very new acquaintance. The absolute truth of the matter I had +reason to believe later was that he did not know I was a person. I may +have been the first of my species he had seen in this rose-garden world +of his and he thought I was only another kind of robin. I was too-- +though that was a secret of mine and nobody but myself knew it. Because +of this fact I had the power of holding myself STILL--quite STILL and +filling myself with softly alluring tenderness of the tenderest when any +little wild thing came near me. "What do you do to make him come to you +like that?" some one asked me a month or so later. "What do you DO?" "I +don't know what I do exactly," I said. "Except that I hold myself very +still and feel like a robin." + +You can only do that with a tiny wild thing by being so tender of him-- +of his little timidities and feelings--so adoringly anxious not to +startle him or suggest by any movement the possibility of your being a +creature who COULD HURT--that your very yearning to understand his tiny +hopes and fears and desires makes you for the time cease to be quite a +mere human thing and gives you another and more exquisite sense which +speaks for you without speech. + +As I sat and watched him I held myself softly still and felt just that. +I did not know he was a robin. The truth was that he was too young at +that time to look like one, but I did not know that either. He was +plainly not a thrush, or a linnet or a sparrow or a starling or a +blackbird. He was a little indeterminate-colored bird and he had no red +on his breast. And as I sat and gazed at him he gazed at me as one quite +without prejudice unless it might be with the slightest tinge of favor-- +and hopped--and hopped--and hopped. + +That was the thrill and wonder of it. No bird, however evident his +acknowledgement of my harmlessness, had ever hopped and REMAINED. Many +had perched for a moment in the grass or on a nearby bough, had trilled +or chirped or secured a scurrying gold and green beetle and flown away. +But none had stayed to inquire--to reflect--even to seem--if one dared +be so bold as to hope such a thing--to make mysterious, almost occult +advances towards intimacy. Also I had never before heard of such a thing +happening to any one howsoever bird loving. Birds are creatures who must +be wooed and it must be delicate and careful wooing which allures them +into friendship. + +I held my soft stillness. Would he stay? Could it be that the last hop +was nearer? Yes, it was. The moment was a breathless one. Dare one +believe that the next was nearer still--and the next--and the next--and +that the two yards of distance had become scarcely one--and that within +that radius he was soberly hopping round my very feet with his quite +unafraid eye full upon me. This was what was happening. It may not seem +exciting but it was. That a little wild thing should come to one unasked +was of a thrillingness touched with awe. + +Without stirring a muscle I began to make low, soft, little sounds to +him--very low and very caressing indeed--softer than one makes to a +baby. I wanted to weave a spell--to establish mental communication--to +make Magic. And as I uttered the tiny sounds he hopped nearer and +nearer. + +"Oh! to think that you will come as near as that!" I whispered to him. +"You KNOW. You know that nothing in the world would make me put out my +hand or startle you in the least tiniest way. You know it because you +are a real person as well as a lovely--lovely little bird thing. You +know it because you are a soul." + +Because of this first morning I knew--years later--that this was what +Mistress Mary thought when she bent down in the Long Walk and "tried to +make robin sounds." + +I said it all in a whisper and I think the words must have sounded like +robin sounds because he listened with interest and at last--miracle of +miracles as it seemed to me--he actually fluttered up on to a small +shrub not two yards away from my knee and sat there as one who was +pleased with the topic of conversation. + +I did not move of course, I sat still and waited his pleasure. Not for +mines of rubies would I have lifted a finger. + +I think he stayed near me altogether about half an hour. Then he +disappeared. Where or even exactly when I did not know. One moment he +was hopping among some of the rose bushes and then he was gone. + +This, in fact, was his little mysterious way from first to last. Through +all the months of our delicious intimacy he never let me know where he +lived. I knew it was in the rose-garden--but that was all. His +extraordinary freedom from timorousness was something to think over. +After reflecting upon him a good deal I thought I had reached an +explanation. He had been born in the rose-garden and being of a home- +loving nature he had declined to follow the rest of his family when they +had made their first flight over the wall into the rose-walk or over the +laurel hedge into the pheasant cover behind. He had stayed in the rose +world and then had felt lonely. Without father or mother or sisters or +brothers desolateness of spirit fell upon him. He saw a creature--I +insist on believing that he thought it another order of robin--and +approached to see what it would say. + +Its whole bearing was confidence inspiring. It made softly alluring--if +unexplainable--sounds. He felt its friendliness and affection. It was +curious to look at and far too large for any ordinary nest. It plainly +could not fly. But there was not a shadow of inimical sentiment in it. +Instinct told him that. It admired him, it wanted him to remain near, +there was a certain comfort in its caressing atmosphere. He liked it and +felt less desolate. He would return to it again. + +The next day summer rains kept me in the house. The next I went to the +rose-garden in the morning and sat down under my tree to work. I had not +been there half an hour when I felt I must lift my eyes and look. A +little indeterminate-colored bird was hopping quietly about in the +grass--quite aware of me as his dew-bright eye manifested. He had come +again--of intention--because we were mates. + +It was the beginning of an intimacy not to be described unless one +filled a small volume. From that moment we never doubted each other for +one second. He knew and I knew. Each morning when I came into the rose- +garden he came to call on me and discover things he wanted to know +concerning robins of my size and unusual physical conformation. He did +not understand but he was attracted by me. Each day I held myself still +and tried to make robin sounds expressive of adoring tenderness and he +came each day a little nearer. At last arrived a day when as I softly +left my seat and moved about the garden he actually quietly hopped after +me. + +I wish I could remember exactly what length of time elapsed before I +knew he was really a robin. An ornithologist would doubtless know but I +do not. But one morning I was bending over a bed of Laurette Messimy +roses and I became aware that he had arrived in his usual mysterious way +without warning. He was standing in the grass and when I turned my eyes +upon him I only just saved myself from starting--which would have meant +disaster. I saw upon his breast the first dawning of a flush of color-- +more tawny than actual red at that stage--but it hinted at revelations. + +"Further subterfuge is useless," I said to him. "You are betrayed. You +are a robin." + +And he did not attempt to deny it either then or at any future time. In +less than two weeks he revealed a tight, glossy little bright red satin +waistcoat and with it a certain youthful maturity such as one beholds in +the wearer of a first dress suit. His movements were more brisk and +certain. He began to make little flights and little sounds though for +some time he made no attempt to sing. Instead of appearing suddenly in +the grass at my feet, a heavenly little rush of wings would + +[Illustration: A HEAVENLY RUSH OF WINGS] + +bring him to a bough over my head or a twig quite near me where he would +tilt daintily, taking his silent but quite responsive part in the +conversations which always took place between us. It was I who talked-- +telling him how I loved him--how satin red his waistcoat was--how large +and bright his eyes--how delicate and elegant his slender legs. I +flattered him a great deal. He adored flattery and I am sure he loved me +most when I told him that it was impossible to say anything which could +flatter him. It gave him confidence in my good taste. + +One morning--a heavenly sunny one--I was conversing with him by the +Laurette Messimys again and he was evidently much pleased with the +things I said. Perhaps he liked my hat which was a large white one with +a wreath of roses round its crown. I saw him look at it and I gently +hinted that I had worn it in the hope that he would approve. I had +broken off a handful of coral pink Laurettes and was arranging them idly +when--he spread his wings in a sudden upward flight--a tiny swift flight +which ended--among the roses on my hat--the very hat on my head. + +Did I make myself still then? Did I stir by a single hairbreadth? Who +does not know? I scarcely let myself breathe. I could not believe that +such a thing of pure joy could be true. + +But in a minute I realized that he at least was not afraid to move. He +was perfectly at home. He hopped about the brim and examined the roses +with delicate pecks. That I was under the hat apparently only gave him +confidence. He knew me as well as that. He stayed until he had learned +all he wished to know about garden hats and then he lightly flew away. + +From that time each day drew us closer to each other. He began to perch +on twigs only a few inches from my face and listen while I whispered to +him--yes, he LISTENED and made answer with chirps. Nothing else would +describe it. As I wrote he would alight on my manuscript paper and try +to read. Sometimes I thought he was a little offended because he found +my handwriting so bad that he could not understand it. He would take +crumbs out of my hand, he would alight on my chair or my shoulder. The +instant I opened the little door in the leaf-covered garden wall I would +be greeted by the darling little rush of wings and he was beside me. And +he always came from nowhere and disappeared into space. + +That, through the whole summer--was his rarest fascination. Perhaps he +was not a real robin. Perhaps he was a fairy. Who knows? Among the many +house parties staying with me he was a subject of thrilled interest. +People knew of him who had not seen him and it became a custom with +callers to say: "May we go into the rose-garden and see The Robin?" One +of my American guests said he was uncanny and called him "The Goblin +Robin." No one had ever seen a thing so curiously human--so much more +than mere bird. + +When I took callers to the rose-garden he was exquisitely polite. He +always came when I stood under my tree and called--but he never at such +times MET me with his rush to the little door. He would perch near me +and talk but there was a difference. Certain exquisite intimate charms +he kept for me alone. + +I wondered when he would begin to sing. One morning the sun being strong +enough to pierce through the leaves of my tree I had a large Japanese +tent umbrella arranged so that it shaded my table as I wrote. Suddenly I +heard a robin song which sounded as if it were being trilled from some +tree at a little distance from where I sat. It was so pretty that I +leaned forward to see exactly where the singer perched. I made a +delicious discovery. He was not on a tree at all. He was perched upon +the very end of one of the bamboo ribs of my big flowery umbrella. He +was my own Robin and there he sat singing to me his first tiny song-- +showing me that he had found out how to do it. + +The effect of singing at a distance was produced by the curious fact +that he was singing WITH HIS BILL CLOSED, his darling scarlet throat +puffed out and tremulous with the captive trills. + +Perhaps a robin's first song is always of this order. I do not know. I +only know that this was his "earlier manner." My enraptured delight I +expressed to him in my most eloquent phrases. I praised him--I flattered +him. I made him believe that no robin had really ever sung before. He +was much pleased and flew down on to the table to hear all about it and +incite me to further effort. + +In a few days he had learned to sing perfectly, not with the low +distant-sounding note but with open beak and clear brilliant little +roulades and trills. He grew prouder and prouder. When he saw I was busy +he would tilt on a nearby bough and call me with flirtatious, +provocative outbreaking of song. He knew that it was impossible for any +one to resist him--any one in the world. Of course I would get up and +stand beneath his tree with my face upturned and tell him that his +charm, his beauty, his fascination and my love were beyond the power of +words to express. He knew that would happen and revelled in it. His tiny +airs and graces, his devices to attract and absorb attention was +unending. He invented new ones every day and each was more enslaving +than the last. + +Could it be that he was guilty--when he met other robins--of boasting of +his conquest of me and of my utter subjugation? I cannot believe it +possible. Also I never saw other robins accost him or linger in their +passage through the rose-garden to exchange civilities. And yet a very +strange thing occurred on one occasion. I was sitting at my table +expecting him and heard a familiar chirp. When I looked up he was atilt +upon the branch of an apple tree near by. I greeted him with little +whistles and twitters thinking of course that he would fly down to me +for our usual conversation. But though he chirped a reply and put his +head on one side engagingly he did not move from his bough. + +"What is the matter with you?" I said. "Come down--come down, little +brother!" + +But he did not come. He only sidled and twittered and stayed where he +was. This was so extraordinary that I got up and went to him. As I +looked a curious doubt came upon me. He looked like Tweetie--(which had +become his baptismal name) he tilted his head and flirted and twittered +after the manner of Tweetie--but--could it be that he was NOT what he +pretended to be? Could he be a stranger bird? That seemed out of the +question as no stranger bird would have comported himself with such +familiarity. No stranger surely would have come so near and addressed me +with such intimate twitterings and well-known airs and graces. I was +mystified beyond measure. I exerted all my powers to lure him from his +branch but descend from it he would not. He listened and smiled and +flirted his tail but he stayed where he was. + +"Listen," I said at last. "I don't believe in you. There is a mystery +here. You pretend you know me and yet you act as if you were afraid of +me--just like a common bird who is made of nothing but feathers. I don't +believe you are Tweetie at all. You are an Impostor!" + +Believable or not, just at that moment when I stood there under the +bough arguing, reproaching and beguiling by turns and puzzled beyond +measure--out of the Nowhere darted a little scarlet flame of frenzy-- +Tweetie himself--with his feathers ruffled and on fire with fury. The +robin on the branch actually WAS an Impostor and Tweetie had discovered +him red-breasted if not red-handed with crime. Oh! the sight it was to +behold him in his tiny Berseker rage at his impudent rival. He flew at +him, he beat him, he smacked him, he pecked him, he shrieked bad +language at him, he drove him from the branch--from the tree, from one +tree after another as the little traitor tried to take refuge--he drove +him from the rose-garden--over the laurel hedge and into the pheasant +cover in the wood. Perhaps he killed him and left him slain in the +bracken. I could not see. But having beaten him once and forever he came +back to me, panting--all fluffed up--and with blood thirst only just +dying in his eye. He came down on to my table--out of breath as he +agitatedly rearranged his untidy feathers--and indignant--almost +unreconcilable because I had been such an undiscriminating and feeble- +minded imbecile as to be for one moment deceived. + +His righteous wrath was awful to behold. I was so frightened that I felt +quite pale. With those wiles of the serpent which every noble woman +finds herself forced to employ at times I endeavored to pacify him. + +"Of course I did not really believe he was You," I said tremulously. "He +was your inferior in every respect. His waistcoat was not nearly so +beautiful as yours. His eyes were not so soul compelling. His legs were +not nearly so elegant and slender. And there was an expression about his +beak which I distrusted from the first. You HEARD me tell him he was an +Impostor." + +He began to listen--he became calmer--he relented. He kindly ate a +crumb out of my hand. + +We began mutually to understand the infamy of the situation. The +Impostor had been secretly watching us. He had envied us our happiness. +Into his degenerate mind had stolen the darkling and criminal thought +that he--Audacious Scoundrel--might impose upon me by pretending he was +not merely "a robin" but "The Robin"--Tweetie himself and that he might +supplant him in my affections. But he had been confounded and cast into +outer darkness and again we were One. + +I will not attempt to deceive. He was jealous beyond bounds. It was +necessary for me to be most discreet in my demeanor towards the head +gardener with whom I was obliged to consult frequently. When he came +into the rose-garden for orders Tweetie at once appeared. + +He followed us, hopping in the grass or from rose bush to rose bush. No +word of ours escaped him. If our conversation on the enthralling +subjects of fertilizers and aphides seemed in its earnest absorption to +verge upon the emotional and tender he interfered at once. He commanded +my attention. He perched on nearby boughs and endeavored to distract me. +He fluttered about and called me with chirps. His last resource was +always to fly to the topmost twig of an apple tree and begin to sing his +most brilliant song in his most thrilling tone and with an affected +manner. Naturally we were obliged to listen and talk about him. Even old +Barton's weather-beaten apple face would wrinkle into smiles. + +"He's doin' that to make us look at him," he would say. "That's what +he's doin' it for. He can't abide not to be noticed." + +But it was not only his vanity which drew him to me. He loved me. The +low song trilled in his little pulsating scarlet throat was mine. He +sang it only to me--and he would never sing it when any one else was +there to hear. When we were quite alone with only roses and bees and +sunshine and silence about us, when he swung on some spray quite close +to me and I stood and talked to him in whispers--then he would answer +me--each time I paused--with the little "far away" sounding trills--the +sweetest, most wonderful little sounds in the world. A clever person who +knew more of the habits of birds than I did told me a most curious +thing. + +"That is his little mating song," he said. "You have inspired a hopeless +passion in a robin." + +Perhaps so. He thought the rose-garden was the world and it seemed to me +he never went out of it during the summer months. At whatsoever hour I +appeared and called him he came out of bushes but from a different point +each time. In late autumn however, one afternoon I SAW him fly to me +from over a wall dividing the enclosed garden from the open ones. I +thought he looked guilty and fluttered when he alighted near me. I think +he did not want me to know. + +"You have been making the acquaintance of a young lady robin," I said to +him. "Perhaps you are already engaged to her for the next season." + +He tried to persuade me that it was not true but I felt he was not +entirely frank. + +After that it was plain that he had discovered that the rose-garden was +not ALL the world. He knew about the other side of the wall. But it did +not absorb him altogether. He was seldom absent when I came and he never +failed to answer my call. I talked to him often about the young lady +robin but though he showed a gentlemanly reticence on the subject I knew +quite well he loved me best. He loved my robin sounds, he loved my +whispers, his dewy dark eyes looked into mine as if he knew we two +understood strange tender things others did not. + +I was only a mere tenant of the beautiful place I had had for nine years +and that winter the owner sold the estate. In December I was to go to +Montreux for a couple of months; in March I was to return to Maytham and +close it before leaving it finally. Until I left for Switzerland I saw +my robin every day. Before I went away I called him to me and told him +where I was going. + +He was such a little thing. Two or three months might seem a lifetime to +him. He might not remember me so long. I was not a real robin. I was +only a human being. I said a great many things to him--wondering if he +would even be in the garden when I came back. I went away wondering. + +When I returned from the world of winter sports, of mountain snows, of +tobogganing and skis I felt as if I had been absent a long time. There +had been snow even in Kent and the park and gardens were white. I +arrived in the evening. The next morning I threw on my red frieze garden +cloak and went down the flagged terrace and the Long Walk through the +walled gardens to the beloved place where the rose bushes stood dark and +slender and leafless among the whiteness. I went to my own tree and +stood under it and called. + +"Are you gone," I said in my heart; "are you gone, little Soul? Shall I +never see you again?" + +After the call I waited--and I had never waited before. The roses were +gone and he was not in the rose-world. I called again. The call was +sometimes a soft whistle as near a robin sound as I could make it-- +sometimes it was a chirp--sometimes it was a quick clear repetition of +"Sweet! Sweet! Sweetie"--which I fancied he liked best. I made one +after the other--and then--something scarlet flashed across the lawn, +across the rose-walk--over the wall and he was there. He had not +forgotten, it had not been too long, he alighted on the snowy brown +grass at my feet. + +Then I knew he was a little Soul and not only a bird and the real +parting which must come in a few weeks' time loomed up before me a +strange tragic thing. + +* * * + +I do not often allow myself to think of it. It was too final. And there +was nothing to be done. I was going thousands of miles across the sea. A +little warm thing of scarlet and brown feathers and pulsating trilling +throat lives such a brief life. The little soul in its black dew-drop +eye--one knows nothing about it. For myself I sometimes believe strange +things. We two were something weirdly near to each other. + +At the end I went down to the bare world of roses one soft damp day and +stood under the tree and called him for the last time. He did not keep +me waiting and he flew to a twig very near my face. I could not write +all I said to him. I tried with all my heart to explain and he answered +me--between his listenings--with the "far away" love note. I talked to +him as if he knew all I knew. He put his head on one side and listened +so intently that I felt that he understood. I told him that I must go +away and that we should not see each other again and I told him why. + +"But you must not think when I do not come back it is because I have +forgotten you," I said. "Never since I was born have I loved anything as +I have loved you--except my two babies. Never shall I love anything so +much again so long as I am in the world. You are a little Soul and I am a +little Soul and we shall love each other forever and ever. We won't say +Good-bye. We have been too near to each other--nearer than human +beings are. I love you and love you and love you--little Soul." + +Then I went out of the rose-garden. I shall never go into it again. + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of My Robin, by Frances Hodgson Burnett + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY ROBIN *** + +This file should be named myrbn10.txt or myrbn10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, myrbn11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, myrbn10a.txt + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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