looked quite
different. It made her think that it was curious how much nicer a person
looked when he smiled. She had not thought of it before.

He turned about to the orchard side of his garden and began to
whistle--a low soft whistle. She could not understand how such a surly
man could make such a coaxing sound.

Almost the next moment a wonderful thing happened. She heard a soft
little rushing flight through the air--and it was the bird with the red
breast flying to them, and he actually alighted on the big clod of earth
quite near to the gardener's foot.

"Here he is," chuckled the old man, and then he spoke to the bird as if
he were speaking to a child.

"Where has tha' been, tha' cheeky little beggar?" he said. "I've not
seen thee before to-day. Has tha' begun tha' courtin' this early in th'
season? Tha'rt too forrad."

The bird put his tiny head on one side and looked up at him with his
soft bright eye which was like a black dewdrop. He seemed quite familiar
and not the least afraid. He hopped about and pecked the earth briskly,
looking for seeds and insects. It actually gave Mary a queer feeling in
her heart, because he was so pretty and cheerful and seemed so like a
person. He had a tiny plump body and a delicate beak, and slender
delicate legs.

"Will he always come when you call him?" she asked almost in a whisper.

"Aye, that he will. I've knowed him ever since he was a fledgling. He
come out of th' nest in th' other garden an' when first he flew over
th' wall he was too weak to fly back for a few days an' we got
friendly. When he went over th' wall again th' rest of th' brood was
gone an' he was lonely an' he come back to me."

"What kind of a bird is he?" Mary asked.

"Doesn't tha' know? He's a robin redbreast an' they're th' friendliest,
curiousest birds alive. They're almost as friendly as dogs--if you know
how to get on with 'em. Watch him peckin' about there an' lookin' round
at us now an' again. He knows we're talkin' about him."

It was the queerest thing in the world to see the old fellow. He looked
at the plump little scarlet-waistcoated bird as if he were both proud
and fond of him.

"He's a conceited one," he chuckled. "He likes to hear folk talk about
him. An' curious--bless me, there never was his like for curiosity an'
meddlin'. He's always comin' to see what I'm plantin'. He knows all th'
things Mester Craven never troubles hissel' to find out. He's th' head
gardener, he is."