stion that had already cast its
shadow before. Should we make a life-long captive of our Robin, who
took so pleasantly to human ways, or should we give him the perils and
delights of liberty? Mary's eyes were very wistful, and Joy-of-Life and
I reiterated to each other that our house-reared bird would be
handicapped in the greenwood struggle for life, that he was necessarily
weaker and less wary than other young robins, that there were white
kittens next door, that a gaunt, gray hunting-cat had been seen lurking
about the wire box--and yet, all the while, we knew what we must do.

"He who bends to himself a joy
Does the winged life destroy;
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity's sunrise."

And so, on the following day, whenever any of us were at leisure to
guard our artless adventurer from the dangers of the yard, we set the
cage-lid wide and let him go where he would. He made small use of his
privileges at first. Little runs on the lawn amused him for a while,
but he would soon mount to the piazza rail and tease the occupant of
the steamer chair for food and petting. His hops over the shelving rock
behind the house were feeble; his trips of exploration to the
neighboring trees and roofs were brief. He was hardly more than a baby
robin yet and, soon wearied, he would go back into his cage for a nap
on the familiar perch. An old maternal robin showed much interest in
this lonely, weak-legged youngster, who seemed so unthrifty about
picking up ants for himself, but he squealed with fright and flew to us
whenever she approached him. She would stand silently beside the cage
and study him through the wire while he slept, but whether she was the
matron of a robin-home for crippled children, or one of his kinsfolk
puzzling out a likeness, our bewildered fosterling, whose idea of
mother-birds was formed on Dame Gentle and ourselves, would have, from
first to last, nothing to do with her.

But one evening, July 7th, just as we had finished giving Robin Hood a
particularly good supper on the edge of his box, he suddenly soared and
left us. The house stands

"About a young bird's flutter from a wood,"

and, to our dismay, Robin Hood made thitherward
as if it were Sherwood Forest, disappeared
among the dusky treetops and returned not a
chirp to all our agitated calling. He had not
passed a night out of doors for the three weeks
that he had been under human guardianship, and
we felt th