KING OF THE GARDEN. 
SODDEN lawn, a straining oak, a fretting 
bank of laurels, a wet wall shining in 
the gray glare—that was Rusty’s outlook. 
And you could see Rusty himself, too. He 
was the brightest part of the scene, the only 
speck of life—a tiny drop, as it were, of 
unquestionable spirit, of unquestioning hope. 
Across the lawn he showed like a patch of 
raw, red rust against the ever-fresh laurels. 
Nearer, he was a robin, with an unquenchable, 
bright, black eye, a brilliant waistcoat, and a 
brown back. 
As the autumn came he, knowing what 
winter fame meant, bade his children go; 
and they, rising in mutiny, fought him—him 
who had never said ‘No’ to a fight yet. As 
the winter days crept on, continental robins 
came drifting across the land from the east- 
ward. He fought them, too, one by one, as 
they came—he who had hitherto never once 
missed a fight. 
And he was still there; and they, his 
children, and the others, were not there— 
were, in fact, in Cornwall, or Spain, or dead 
belike. 
For ten seconds, between the father of all 
