“I had known before that Motherdy, though a nice little thing, had a temper, and that she was sometimes given to being jealous of the first Mrs. Robin, and that she had opposed the old nest in the chestnut tree, because Mrs. Robin 1st had lived there. But she was so pretty, and had such graceful ways, that Robin never lost his temper, no matter how unreasonable she might be, and now he only laughed good-humoredly and made light of her fears, saying his mistress would never allow any one to disturb the birds, and as for the evergreens across the street, where she had wanted him to build a new nest, she would have been no safer there, for was not Harry over there, and Grey, and were they not both larger than this Chicago boy who had so alarmed her? “‘You are nervous, little Motherdy,’ he said. ‘You have _boy_ on the brain. Hadn’t you better go home? Some boy may have stolen your babies, nest and all.’ “Motherdy was too angry to reply, and flew away rapidly, followed soon by Robin, who, I suppose, made his peace with her, for they were out together early the next morning, hunting for worms and grasshoppers, and talking lovingly in the language which birds understand. And still I could see that both were rather anxious for the appearance of the children, Florence and Johnnie, and so was I, for I had heard the sound of voices from the house—sweet, musical voices, such as children always have—and I thought I could tell which was Florence and which was Johnnie, for one I knew was two or three years older than the other. “At last they came into the grounds with a laugh and a bound, and from the ridge-pole of the Brockway house Fatherdy and Motherdy were watching them, while I, in my cage, looked eagerly and curiously at them. How pretty they were in their white dresses and gay sashes—Florence with her pale face and starry eyes of black, which seemed to see everything at once, and Johnnie with his great round blue eyes, the color of the robin’s eggs, and his beautiful golden hair falling in curls about his neck. ‘Black-Eyes’ and ‘Bright-Hair’ I named them at once, and I watched them as they started to run up the gravel walk. Bright-Hair, whose little feet had just commenced to walk, fell down, of course, and bumped his nose and soiled his clean white dress; but he did not seem to mind it at all, but, man-like, got up again and started after Black-Eyes, who had spied a little arbor under an apple-tree, which she decided was just the place for the mud pies she was longing to make, as no child’s life in the country is complete without a trial of making and baking pies. Then she saw me next, and both came rushing to me, and Bright-Hair wanted to ‘take, take,’ and stretched his little hands toward me, and tried to climb the lattice, in the archway of which I was hanging. But I was far above his reach, and looked down upon him fearlessly as he tried in vain to get me.