One very hard winter, a robin came, day after day, to our window-sill. He was fed with crumbs, and soon became tame enough not to fly away when we opened the window. One cold day we found the little thing hopping about the kitchen. He had flown in at the window, and did not attempt to fly out again when we came near.

We did not like to drive him out in the bitter cold: so we put him in a cage, in which he soon made himself quite at home. Sometimes we would let him out in the room, and he would perch on our finger, and eat from our hand without the least sign of fear.

When the spring came on, we opened the cage-door and let him go. At first he was not at all inclined to leave us; but after a while he flew off, and we thought we should never see him again.

All through the summer and autumn, the cage stood on a table in a corner of the kitchen. We often thought of the little robin, and were rather sorry that the cage was empty.

When the winter set in, we fancied we saw our old friend again hopping about outside the window. We were by no means sure that it was the same robin; but, just to see what he would do, we opened the window, and set the cage in its old place.

Then we all left the room for a few minutes. When we returned, we found, to our great delight, that the bird was in the cage. He seemed to know us as we petted him and chirruped to him; and we felt certain that it was our dear old friend.

Chiswick, London.