Exciting Adventures of Mister Robert Robin | Page 7

the very start that if you want to be a bad little boy you will have a tough row to hoe, but if you want to mend your ways and be a nice little boy, things will be different! I thought I might as well make that plain to you now as later!"
Then Donald wiped his eyes on the farmer's wife's apron, and helped her weed two whole rows of carrots, and the big Maltese cat went to sleep under the gooseberry bush, and Robert Robin flew back to the woods and told Mrs. Robin that the farmer had a new cat and that the farmer's wife had a new baby that didn't like cats.
CHAPTER III
ROBERT ROBIN AND WIDOW BLUNT'S STUFFED OWL
It was a dismal, rainy day. Long before morning, the storm had begun, and when the faint light had at last dawned in the east, the rain still pattered down on the leaves of Mister Robert Robin's big basswood tree, and fell in great drops from their tips. Robert Robin did not like the weather. He had not even sung his "Hurry up!" song, and the rain had pelted down so furiously that his every feather was wet, and he was soaked to his shivering skin.
Mrs. Robin was afraid that the raindrops would fall inside the nest and wet the eggs, so she kept her wings spread out so far that her shoulders ached.
"It is very uncomfortable, sitting in this cramped position!" she said to Robert Robin. "I am afraid that I will get the rheumatism in my joints!"
"Let me cover the eggs for you!" said Robert Robin.
"With your feathers all wet?" exclaimed Mrs. Robin. "I am trying to keep the eggs dry and warm!"
"Let me try it once!" said Robert Robin.
"No! Thank you, dear! your intentions are good, but you are so clumsy you would be almost sure to break one of the eggs, and to-day is the day they will hatch!"
"I wish that it would stop raining!" said Robert Robin.
"Why not sing your 'Dry Weather' song?" asked Mrs. Robin. "The rain might stop coming if it heard you singing your 'Dry Weather' song!"
"I only sing my 'Dry Weather' song when the weather is dry!" answered Robert Robin. "Still I would do almost anything to make this rain stop coming down!"
So Robert Robin flew up to the top of his big basswood tree to sing his "Dry Weather" song, in the rain.
Mister Jim Crow was sitting in his tall hemlock tree. He was wishing that the rain would stop falling, for he was as wet as water could make him. From over the tops of the tall forest trees came the sound of Robert Robin singing his "Dry Weather" song:
"Dry up the crick! Dry up the crick! Dry up the beetles! Dry up the beetles! Dry up the crick!"
"Ha! Ha! Ha!" laughed Jim Crow. "That funny Robert Robin is singing his 'Dry Weather' song! He is saying 'dry up the crick!'--he means 'creek' of course, but could anything be funnier than that wet bird sitting in the rain, and singing about dry weather? The creek is roaring down through the sheep pasture, like a yellow river! 'Dry up the crick!' Ha! Ha! Ha!" and Jim Crow laughed so hard that he forgot all about being wet.
"Dry up the crick!" screamed Robert Robin over and over again, until he was too tired to sing any more. Then he perched near Mrs. Robin and said, "I sang it seven times, but the rain is coming down harder than ever!"
"Well! You did your best, dear!" said Mrs. Robin. "It isn't your fault if it rains," and she could smell his feathers, they were so wet.
Suddenly the sky grew lighter, and with a roar that shook the earth a mighty wind swept through the woods; the clouds began to break away; the blue sky shone in patches between the torn clouds, and the rain was over.
No more rain fell, but all that night the fierce wind raved and roared, and when the sun came up in the east once more, the fierce gusts were whipping the branches of the elms, and twisting the tops of the tall pines, but Robert Robin's big basswood tree stood on the northeast side of the forest, so that the wind scarcely touched it.
During the night four little baby robins had pecked their way out of the blue eggs, and when daylight came, Mrs. Robin had cleared the nest of broken shells and was covering her babies with her warm feathers. Robert Robin was sitting on the big branch close by. He was oiling and arranging his feathers with great care.
"You did make it stop raining, didn't you, dear?" said Mrs. Robin.
"I must admit that strange things happen!" said Robert Robin, as he lifted a feather and