trees, and the level of the ground, concealed me
from his sight. He reached me when I was
looking at the birds.

"Starlings, sir," he said. I always expect
Jenkinson to find me every information.

"Is not that the bird mentioned in Sterne's
Sentimental Journey?"

"I don't know, sir. But I will take care to
ascertain. Mr. Robin, sir, builds these nests
his-self for the birds."

"Builds nests for the birds!"

"Yes, sir, and he's now making a owl's nest."

Not so, for Robin had spied me out, and with
a tremendous view halloo was bearing down
upon me. But he is fat, and the breath soon
goes out of him. When lie had welcomed me,
as we walked on towards the house, he took
out his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, and
Jenkinson, who followed us, leaped with a great
yell three feet high. For, out of Robin's hand
kerchief there fell a little snake.

"All," said my squire, "I forgot. Don't be
alarmed, Mr. Jenkinson; it's only a blind-worm
that I just now picked up in the wood. Don't
let it glide away." Robin was down on it,
caught it, and put his finger in its mouth. "It
cannot bite you, you see; has only just got
tooth enough to hold a slug; so perhaps you
would not mind obliging me, Mr. Jenkinson, by
carrying it at once into the walled garden
yonder. Lay it on any of the flower-beds."

Jenkinson turned blue and gasped, but made
no answer. "Why, it's only a lizard, man!"
said Robin the bold. "Come, Richard, you and
I will take the garden on our way." I was glad
to find that, whether snake, lizard, or worm, the
thing was going in the direction of the gardener,
and not of the cook.

It was a very fresh and pretty garden that we
went into—superior, indeed, to Margaret's in
Gounod's Faust—walled all round, and in the
entrance, when the door was open, there re
mained a pretty high slab of slate that served as
a very odd sort of threshold, over which we had
to step. It was a garden full of flowers and
fruit, with little hedges and banks, and grottos
and shaded nooks, and in one of the shadiest
corners there was a shallow pan of water let into
the earth. " That's for my frogs," said Robin.

"Are—are you very fond of frogs?"

''Very. But give me a good toad. He's
worth a basketful of apricots!"

It seemed to me amazing that perversion of
taste could extend so far. I groaned within
myself. I wanted my lunch, and I dreaded my
lunch, and now that Robin was in his garden
knee-deep in his hobby, what chance was there
that I should ever get my lunch?

"So a toad's worth a basketful of apricots,"
I said, deferentially.

"Yes. Why, Dick, do you know what he
feeds upon? Slugs, man; moths, grubs,
caterpillars. And how they fatten him! If you
have any regard for delicacies of the season, it's a
real pleasure to know that you've some good fat
toads in the garden. It isn't only in the garden
they're good. I've three now in the kitchen."

"But how does the cook—"

"Well, I'd some trouble at first to make the
maids like them, but they're getting fond of
them now."

"You don't say so?"

"Yes, they call them Blub, Squat, and
Squiddle, and declare that the creatures know
their names. I had a comfortable hole in the
wall made for them under the dresser—nice
and damp; there they keep out of harm's way
in the daytime, and come out at night to eat
the cockroaches."

Here was a relief to my mind; I felt rather
more appetite for lunch. This, too, explained
the hedgepigs, perhaps. " I have met with the
fact," I said, " in some newspaper, or heard in
some opera, that a hedgepig will feed upon
blackbeetles."

"Yes, the little hedgehog will do that. But
I like him here in the garden. There's a hedge
here on purpose for him and the blind-worm. I
like my little friends to feel at home. They
can't get out, you see; we're walled all round,
and the stone at the door is more than they can
climb over. So I got up a good stock of frogs
and toads, laid in a few hedgehogs and blind-
worms, advertised apartments to let for a couple
of brown owls, got very good tenants, leave all the
birds of the air free to peck about, except that I
balk them with a little netting over the best fruit,
and now—see what fruit and flowers I have!"

"What do you mean by advertising
apartments to let for owls? Do you mean that you
advertised for somebody to sell you owls?"

"No. The birds themselves saw the adver
tisement and came, tried the lodgings, liked
them, and agreed to stop. I always advertise
for any birds I want. Didn't you see as you
came in, how well my advertisement for starlings
had been answered?"

"Now, I am not going to believe, Rob, that
Turmutshire birds take in a local paper. You
may think me a cockney, but I know better than
that. And besides, what do you want with owls
and starlings, and all that sort of thing? If
you were to ask me just now what / want, I
should say a bit of chicken."

"We'll go in to lunch this minute. But
look at my tenants the owls. They're not afraid
of us, you see." I fought after Robin through
some bushes, and found in a dark corner two
owls blinking on a perch in a hollow tree, who
looked good naturedly at us, and displayed no
trepidation. " I found the tree in the wood, and
fixed the stump here, hollowed it, put in a com
fortable perch, and left it undisturbed. After a
few weeks these owls found it out, and took
possession. We quite understand each other now."

"And what rent do your tenants pay?"

"They pay me in tulips and hyacinths, by
catching all the mice, and it isn't only the bulbs
that the mice nibble. Wherever I can, in
garden or farm, I make a comfortable corner for
the owls. It cost me some trouble to make a
plate here that a weasel would be snug in, but
with a little trouble I have managed that. I
dare say a weasel is not a safe neighbour to