I did not move of course, I was still and waited his pleasure. Not for mines of rubies would I have lifted a finger. 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.

For more That's not my… books, we also have other boxsets with so many other different animals. That's not my frog/bear/donkey 3 Books Collection, or That's not my... Box Set 4 Books Collection , which contains That's not my Kangaroo, That's not my Tiger, That's not my Flamingo, and That's not my Sloth. Having such a wide variety of animals available in this book series is a great way to teach your little ones about the many animals worldwide. 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- 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. 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.

The causes of change are uncertain as detailed analyses have not been undertaken, but the number of fledglings per breeding attempt increased concurrently with the population increase, whilst survival measures were unchanged, suggesting that increased productivity is the most likely driver.

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 over a wall dividing the enclosed garden from the open ones. I thought he He was murdered because I wasn’t there to save him. He was murdered because I was a fool. He was murdered because I didn’t care enough. A little girl who felt so comfortable with him that she was willing to put her safety in his hands. 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.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.

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 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

Top tips for feeding robins

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 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. 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."