"I do believe there's a real little robin redbreast. Don't let's
frighten him away."
The child's eyes sparkled with pleasure; she looked quite different.
"It's the first _real_ one we've ever seen," said she and Norna
together.
"Poor little man!" said their governess; "he must be hungry to be so
tame. Let us throw crumbs every morning, children. I am sure your
mamma won't mind. This terrace is a splendid place."
The idea pleased them mightily. I hid myself in the ivy for a few
moments, and when I came out again, there was a delightful spread all
ready. So I flew down and began to profit by it, expressing my thanks,
of course, in a well-bred manner. The window was still open, and I
heard some words that Miss Meadows murmured to herself:
"I wish I could find out some little service for others that they could
do, even this first Christmas," she said.
"They would be so much happier, poor little things! Dear robin, I am
even grateful to you for making me think of throwing out crumbs."
She looked so sweet that my heart warmed to her, and I wished I could
help her. And at that moment an idea struck me. You will soon hear
what it was.
I had another visit to pay that morning; indeed I had been on my way to
do so when the exciting news about the Manor House attracted me thither.
But now I flew off, to the little home where I was always welcome. It
was a very small cottage at the outskirts of the same village of which
the home of the newly-returned family was the great house. In this
cottage lived a couple and their two children--a boy and a girl. They
had always been poor, but striving and thrifty, so that the little place
looked bright and comfortable though so bare, and the children tidy and
rosy. But now, alas! things had changed for the worse. A bad accident
to the father, who was a woodcutter, had entirely crippled him; and
though some help was given them, it was all the poor mother could do to
keep out of the workhouse. I made a point of visiting the cottage every
day; it cheered them up, and there were generally some crumbs for me.
But this morning--not that it mattered to me after my good breakfast at
the Manor House--there were none; and as I alighted on the sill of the
little kitchen and looked in, everything was dull and cheerless. No
fire was lighted; the two children, Jem and Joyce, sat crouched together
on the settle by the empty grate as if to gain a little warmth from each
other. They looked blue and pinched, and scarcely awake; but when they
saw me at the window they brightened up a little.
"There's robin," said Joyce. "Poor robin! we've nothing for you this
morning."
A small pane was broken in the window and pasted over with paper, but a
corner was torn, and so I could hear what they said.
"No indeed," said Jem; "we've had nothing ourselves--not since yesterday
at dinner time. And it is so cold."
I stood still on one leg, and chirped that I was very sorry. I think
they understood me.
"Mother's gone to Farmer Bantry's," said Joyce, as if she was glad to
have some one--"even a bird," some folk who know precious little about
us would say--to tell her troubles to. "They're cleanin' up for
Christmas, and she'll get a shilling and maybe some broken victuals, she
said. So we're tryin' to go to sleep again to make the time pass."
"There was two sixpences yesterday," said Jem, mournfully; "and one
would 'a got some coal, and t'other some bread and tea. But the doctor
said as father must have somefin'--" (Jem was only five and Joyce
eight)--"queer stuff--I forget the name--to wunst. So mother she went
to the shop, and father's got the stuff, and he's asleep; but we've not
had nuffin'."
"And Christmas is coming next week, mother says," Joyce added. "Last
Christmas we had new shoes, and meat for dinner."
I was sadly grieved for them. Joyce spoke in a dull, broken sort of
tone that did not sound like a child. But I hoped to serve them better
than by standing there repeating my regret; so, after a few more chirps
of sympathy, I flew off.
"Robin doesn't care to stay," said Jem, dolefully.
Later in the day I met the children's mother trudging home. She looked
tired; but she had a basket on her arm, so I hoped the farmer's wife had
given them some scraps which would help them for the time.
Now I had a plan in my head. Late that afternoon, after flying all
round the Manor House and peeping in at a great many windows, I perched
in the ivy--there was ivy over a great part of the walls--just outside
one on the first floor. It was the children's bedroom. I waited
anxiously, afraid that I might have no chance of getting in; but
fortunately for me the fire smoked a little when it was lighted in the
evening for the young ladies to be dressed by, and the nurse opened the
window a tiny bit, so in I flew, very careful not to be seen, you may be
sure. I found a very cosy corner on the edge of a picture in a dark
part of the room, and there I had time for a nap before Norna and Ivy
came to bed. Then when all was silent for the night, I flew down and
took up my quarters on the rail at the head of Norna's bed; and when I
had spent an hour or so beside her, I gently fluttered across to her
sister; and though I was chirping nearly all the time, my voice was so
low that no one entering the room would have noticed it; or if they had
done so, they would probably have thought it a drowsy cricket, half
aroused by the pleasant warmth of the fire.
But my chirping did more than soothe my little friends' slumbers (and
here the robin cocked his head afresh and looked very solemn). Children
(he said), human beings know very little about themselves. You don't
know, for instance, anything at all about yourselves when you're asleep,
or what dreams really are. You speak of being "sleepy," or half-asleep,
as if it meant something very stupid; whereas, sometimes when you are
whole asleep, you are much wiser than when you are awake. Now it is not
my business to teach you things you're perhaps not meant to understand
at present, but this I can tell you--if I perched on your pillows at
night when you're asleep, and chirped in my own way to you, you'd have
no difficulty in understanding me. And this was what happened to the
two little maidens a few nights before their first Christmas in England.
They thought they had had a wonderful dream--each of them separately,
and they never knew that the robin who flew out of the window early in
the morning before any one noticed him, had had anything to do with it.
I (for it was I myself, of course) perched again in the ivy beside the
dining-room window, _partly_, I allow, with a view to breakfast; partly
and principally to see what would happen.
They did not forget me--us, perhaps I should say, for several other
birds collected on the terrace, thanks to the news I had scattered
about--and as soon as those within had risen from table, Miss Meadows
and her two little companions came to the window, which they opened, and
threw out a splendid plateful of crumbs. It was not so cold this
morning. I hopped close to them, for I wanted to hear what they were
saying as they stood by the open window-door, all the grown-up people
having left the room.
The pale little faces looked bright and eager, and very full of
something their owners were relating.
"Yes, Miss Meadows; it was quite wonderful. Ivy dreamed it, and I
dreamed it. I believe it was a fairy dream."
"And please do let us try to find out if there are any poor children
like that near here," said Ivy. "I don't think there _could_ be; do
you, Miss Meadows?"
Miss Meadows shook her head.
"I'm afraid, dear, it is not uncommon in either town or country to find
children quite as poor as those you dreamt of. But when we go out a
walk to-day, we'll try and inquire a little. It would be nice if you
could do something for other people even this first Christmas in
England."
She looked quite bright and eager herself; and as the three started off
down the drive about an hour later, on their way to the village, I
noticed that they were all talking eagerly, and that Norna and Ivy were
giving little springs as they walked along one on each side of their
kind governess; and I must confess I felt pleased to think I had had
some hand in this improvement.
Miss Meadows had lived most of her life in the country, and she was
accustomed to country ways. So she meant to go to the village, and
there try to pick up a little information about any of the families who
might be very poor this Christmas time. But I had no intention of
letting them go so far--no indeed--I knew what I was about.
The cottage of my little friends, Joyce and Jem, was about half-way
between the Manor House and the village, and the village was a good mile
from the great house. A lane led from the high road to the cottage.
Just as the three reached the corner of the lane, Ivy gave a little cry.
"Miss Meadows, Norna," she said, "there is the robin. I'm sure it's our
robin. Don't you think it is, Miss Meadows?"
The governess smiled.
"There are a great many robins, Ivy dear. It's not very likely it's the
same one. We human beings are too stupid to tell the difference between
birds of the same kind, you see."
But, as _you_ know, Ivy was right.
"Do let's follow him a little way down the lane," she said. "He keeps
hopping on and then looking back at us. I wonder if his home is down
here."
No, it was not _my_ home, but it was my little friends' home; and soon I
managed to bring the little party to a standstill before the cottage
gate, where I had perched.
"What a nice cottage," said Norna; and so it looked at the first glance.
But in a moment or two she added: "Oh, do look at that little girl; how
very thin and pale she is!"
It was Joyce. Miss Meadows called to her; and in her kind way soon got
the little girl to tell her something of their troubles. Things were
even worse with them to-day; for Jem's feet were so bad with chilblains
that he could not get about at all. The governess satisfied herself
that there was no illness in the cottage that could hurt Norna and Ivy,
and then they all went in to see poor Jem; and Miss Meadows went
upstairs to speak to the bedridden father. When she came down again her
face looked very sad, but bright too.
"Children," she said, as soon as they were out on the road again, "I
don't think we need go on to the village. We have found what we were
looking for."
Then she went on to tell them that she had left a message with the
woodcutter, asking his wife to come up to speak to her that evening at
the Manor House.
"I know your mamma won't mind," she said. "I will tell her all about it
as soon as we get home. She will like you to try to do something for
these poor children,"--which was quite true. The lady of the Manor was
kind and gentle; only, you see, many years in India had got her out of
English ways.
So that evening, when the woodcutter's wife came up to the great house,
there was a grand consultation. And for some days to come, for
Christmas was very near, Ivy and Norna were so busy that they had no
time to grumble at the cold or to wish they were back in India, though
they did find time to skip and dance along the passages, and to sing
verses of the carols Miss Meadows was teaching them.
Things improved at the cottage from that day. But it is about Christmas
morning I want to tell you.
Joyce and Jem woke early--long before it was light--but they lay still
and spoke in a whisper, not to wake their poor father or their tired
mother. There was no one to hear except a little robin, who had managed
to creep in the night before.
"It's Christmas, Jem," said Joyce; "and we shall have a nice fire.
They've sent mother some coals from the great house; and I _believe_
we're going to have meat for dinner."
Jem sighed with pleasure. He could scarcely believe it.
"Shall we go to church like last Christmas, Joyce?" he asked. "My boots
is so drefful bad, I don't know as I could walk in them."
"So's mine," said Joyce. "But p'r'aps if the roads is very dry, we
might manage."
And so they chattered, till at last the first rays of winter daylight
began to find their way into the little room. The children looked about
them--somehow they had a feeling that things could not look _quite_ the
same on Christmas morning! But what they did see was something very
wonderful. On the floor near the window were two _very_ big brown paper
parcels; and Joyce jumping out of bed to see what they were, saw that to
each was pinned a card; and on one card was written, "Joyce," on the
other, "Jem."
"_Jem_," she cried, "it must be fairies," and with trembling fingers
they undid the packages.
It is difficult to tell you their delight!
There was a new frock of warm linsey for Joyce, and a suit of corduroy
for Jem, boots for both--stockings and socks--two splendid red
comforters, one knitted by Ivy and one by Norna; a picture book for
each, a bag of oranges, and a beautiful home-made cake.
Never were children so wild with joy; never had there been such a
Christmas surprise.
I was so pleased that I could not remain hidden any longer. Out I came,
and perching on the window-sill, warbled a Christmas carol in my own
way. And I must say children are very quick.
"Dear robin," said Joyce; "do you know, Jem, I do believe he's a fairy!
I shouldn't wonder if he'd somehow told the kind little young ladies to
come and see us."
There was a pause. Rafe and Alix waited a moment to make sure that the
robin had quite finished; then they looked up. He was not in such a
hurry to fly off as the other bird had been.
"Thank you _very_ much, dear robin," they said. "It is a very pretty
story indeed; and then it's so nice to know it's quite true."
The robin looked pleased.
"Yes," he said, "there's that to be said for it. It's a very simple,
homely story; but it's my own experience. But now I think I must bid
you good-bye for the present, though there's no saying but what we may
meet again." He flew off.
"Rafe," said Alix, "besides all the things mamma does and lets us help
in sometimes for the poor people, wouldn't it be nice if we found some
children we could do things for, more our own selves, you know?"
"Yes," Rafe agreed, "I think it would be."