22 Bulletin 8 



rain — and frightened by street noises and glare of electric lights, he 

 disappeared. The next day the papers advertised his loss. 



News boys and letter carriers had an eye cocked toward the heav- 

 ens. Old ladies along the street craned their necks skyward. School 

 children were enlisted. The rain fell steadily and I, wet and woe- 

 begone, haunted the wooded outskirts and all likely and unlikely places 

 where I imagined P. B. might be hiding cold, wet and hungry search- 

 ing vainly for ice cream and raisins in some elm or maple tree. No 

 tidings came and another wet, windy night and day followed. If I 

 found him at all I should find only his pitiful little body I thought; 

 and then over the telephone came the message that a robin — a tame 

 robin — a very, very tame robin had with great discrimination selected 

 a home in the best residential part of the city and appeared confi- 

 dently at the window expecting the food that was immediately handed 

 out. He had kept to the porch and at night without using any disr 

 crimination at all he followed his instincts and perched in a tree in 

 a heavy wind and rain. I stood not upon the order of my going and 

 presently a very wet and bedraggled missus confronted a very wet and 

 bedraggled robin, too miserable to cheep and with dull and half closed 

 eyes. I placed a raisin between my lips. "0, Pitty Babe, want some?" 

 I said. He snatched it greedily. 



I snatched him greedily and popped him into a basket. He was 

 all day getting warm and dry and — would you believe it, he still cast 

 longing glances toward the high elm, and exchanged many confidences 

 with the sparrows outside, and early the next morning he ungratefully 

 came to my door and said things loudly and protestingly; yes, he was 

 actually profane. His saviour was his jailer and the call of the wild 

 was very strong. 



But he is now again domesticated, cheeping at the door to be let 

 in; hovering restlessly about me at sleepy time and when I say "Want 

 to go to bed, Pitty Babe?" following like a kitten to his own particular 

 section of the studio from whence will come his matin song of another 

 day. 



So I repeat, Pitty Babe's future is problematical. 



