FIFTH DAY. 137 



house, and, in less than five minutes, Robin 

 pops his head in at the door and peers at 

 you inquisitively. Ramble into the thickest 

 wood or coppice, and seat yourself on some 

 moss-covered bank, and the redbreast con- 

 fronts you directly. Scarcely has the gar- 

 dener turned a spadeful of earth when this 

 " familiar peast to man " comes a-leasing 

 for the worms thus laid bare, perching so 

 close that he might be taken with the hand. 

 He who wrote the favourite ballad of 6i The 

 Babes in the Wood,' 1 was fully aware of 

 the habits of this pert and familiar bird. 

 Yes, Robin has often shared the simple meal 

 of the anchorite and the furtive repast of 

 the hunter and the outlawed man, when 

 the wild wood afforded the only refuge from 

 tyranny and oppression. 



J. And yet I believe he has a bad cha- 

 racter, quarrelling and fighting with his kind, 

 and even with the members of his own 

 household, on the most trifling occasions ? 



