Rosie the Robin and the Wobbly Nest

The twig slipped again. It tumbled down, down, down through the branches. Rosie the Robin let out a tiny, frustrated chirp. From her branch on the big oak tree, everything looked so far away. Last week, we talked about Hattie the Hedgehog feeling shy by Whispering Creek. Rosie didn't feel shy. She felt… wobbly. Like her wings were brand new and didn't quite know what to do. All the other robins made it look so easy. They would fly back with beaks full of interesting things. A long piece of grass. A soft clump of moss. A shiny bit of string.

Zip, zap, and suddenly, there was a perfect, cozy cup of a nest. Rosie tried. Oh, she really did. She found the perfect forked branch, just like her mama had shown her. She brought back a long, sturdy twig. But when she tried to weave it in place, it just wouldn't stay. It slid right off. So she tried with a bit of soft green moss. The wind puffed, and the moss floated away like a green cloud. She even found a beautiful blue feather. It was so pretty. Surely THIS would work. But it was too light, too delicate. It danced in the air and was gone.

Rosie drooped her little head. Her chest felt tight with a big, fizzy feeling. It was frustration. It made her want to stomp her tiny feet on the branch. She felt clumsy, and small, and very, very alone up in the big, big tree. A little tear welled up in her eye. She tucked her beak under her wing. Hoping no one would see. She just couldn't do it. "Is that a good hiding spot?" a tiny voice squeaked. Rosie peeked out from under her wing. It was Squeaky, a little field mouse with big, kind eyes. He was nibbling on a seed, sitting on the same branch.

Rosie quickly wiped her eye with her wing. "I'm not hiding," she chirped, though her voice was wobbly. Squeaky tilted his head. He didn't laugh. He didn't say, "That looks easy, why can't you do it?" He just looked at the fallen twigs below. Then he looked at the empty spot on the branch. "Building is hard sometimes," he said. "My tunnels sometimes fall in. It makes my whiskers twitch." Rosie lifted her head a little more. "Your nest just needs something... sticky," Squeaky went on. He scurried to the edge of the branch, pointing his nose down.

"See that dark patch of earth by the puddle? That's special building mud." "Mud?" Rosie chirped. It sounded messy. "The BEST kind," Squeaky said. "It's like glue for nests." Rosie thought about it. She had tried twigs. She had tried moss. She had tried feathers. She hadn't tried mud. She flew down, feeling a tiny flutter of hope. The mud was cool and damp. She took a small beakful and flew back to the branch. She dabbed it where the two branches met. Then, she took a twig. She pushed it into the mud. It stayed. It ACTUALLY stayed. Rosie let out a happy little trill.

Squeaky wiggled his nose in delight. Together, they worked. Rosie brought twigs and moss. Squeaky pointed out the best ones. Slowly, bit by bit, a nest began to form. It wasn't just any nest. It was Rosie's nest. A little wobbly, a little muddy, but strong. And it was a nest built with a friend. The big, fizzy feeling of frustration was gone. In its place was a warm, steady feeling. The world was still very big. But with a friend by your side, you never feel quite so small.