That's not my robin...: 1

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I held my soft stillness. Would he stay? Could it be that the last hop was nearer? Yes, it was. The moment was 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. Of course.” The lie burned on his tongue, perhaps more than the truth might have, but Bruce didn’t regret it for a second.

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 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. I don't know what I do exactly," I said. "Except that I hold myself very still and feel like a robin." 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 tender- 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.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 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 Fiona graduated from Exeter University with a B.Ed. (Hons.), specialising in Psychology and Art and Design. After university she worked as a researcher and writer for a company which published educational material for places where children went on school visits (zoos, museums, stately homes etc). She then taught seven, eight, and nine year olds for five years; three years at a state school in Sevenoaks in Kent, and two years at The British School in the Netherlands in The Hague. It’s life,” shrugged the girl, in a serious tone that was amusing to hear coming from a little kid. “Can I come and sit with you?” A little girl who felt so comfortable with him that she was willing to put her safety in his hands.

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 in the grass a yard or so away from me. The surprise was not 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." 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. swer 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. 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 gardenerI 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. Hauling himself onto the fire escape of a nearby apartment, Bruce took a moment to look out over the city. It was strange. Gotham never looked this peaceful during the harsh light of day, nor the cold darkness of night, but in these quiet moments of dawn, it was calm. Initial text entry and proof-reading of this book were the work of volunteer Virginia Mohlere-Dellinger. The pair sat on the fire escape for a few moments, watching the sun rise over the city sky-line. For a moment, Bruce was reminded of the many times he’d done the same with his sons. Things were peaceful, even if only for a moment.

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. 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 He was such a little thing. Two or three months might seem a lifetime to him. He might not remember me so 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 Goodbye. We have been too near to each other–nearer than human beings are. I love you and love you and love you–little Soul." 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.

What about American robins?

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 ?" While Gotham was never completely quiet - the sound of barking dogs and people arguing always carried on late into the night - there was usually a period of time, in the early hours of the morning, when the noise dimmed a little and Bruce could let himself rest for a moment.

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 un- Years of fighting and what good had he actually done for his city? Children were still starving, crime was running rampant and, worst of all, his city had taken his son from him. Looking out over the skyline, Bruce noticed that the sun had almost completely risen. “I should head home,” he announced. “Bats don’t do well in the daylight.” Absentmindedly, he dug through his utility belt and pulled out a protein bar with chocolate chips. “Here, have this before you go to school.”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.