I had been a Brother of Pity for several months, when a very curious
thing happened.
One summer evening I went by myself after tea into a steep little field
at the back of our house, with an old stone-quarry at the top, on the
ledges of which, where the earth had settled, I used to play at making
gardens. And there, lying on a bit of very stony ground, half on the
stones and half on the grass, was a dead robin-redbreast. I love robins
very much, and it was not because I wanted one to die, but because I
thought that if one did die, I should so like to bury him, that I had
wished to find a dead robin ever since I became a Brother of Pity. It
was rather late, but it wanted nearly an hour to my usual bedtime, so I
thought I would go home at once for my dress and spade and bier, and for
some roses. For I had resolved to bury this (my first robin-redbreast)
in a grave lined with rose-leaves, and to give him a wreath of
forget-me-nots.
Just as I was going I heard a loud buzz above my head, and something hit
me in the face. It was a beetle, whirring about in the air, and as I
turned to leave poor Robin the beetle sat down on him, on the middle of
his red breast, and by still hearing the buzzing, I found that another
beetle was whirling and whirring just above my head in the air.
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