THE OPEN WINDOW 



One gray morning last September the world seemed 

 hushed as if expectant, only the insect chorus persisted 

 in a faint undertone. Suddenly the clarion call 

 of a robin was heard. Now our robins had left us 

 some ten days ago, so I went out with the glass to hunt 

 the tree-tops for these visitors. From the low branches 

 of an oak on the edge of the lawn one of the 

 songsters was announcing the arrival of the band. 

 I hastened to see whether the Hercules Club berries 

 were ready to be served, for well I know how fond the 

 robins are of this fruit. No, the rosy stems were 

 tipped with pale green berries making an exquisite 

 picture as, above the tropical foliage, the great heads 

 swayed back and forth against the hazy sky, but the 

 robins did not appreciate this kind of a display. They 

 were far too material. However, there were plenty of 

 other berries for their choice; the wild grape 

 hung its dainty clusters from the pergola roof as well 

 as from many a tree-top ; the dogwood and elder of 

 fered a variety of luscious berries, and on the house 

 wall the Virginia creeper's rich dark fruit dangled 



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