A group of men had come to see what treasures we had found or what crimes we had committed in the dusk. "Hmm," said the old man, as he eyed the bird in his knowing hands: "This is a fledging robin. Left home about a week too early. " We all watched the bird escape and fly away on his beginner's wings, and then return to my shoulder to wait for dinner. "Believe me, that's a robin. Give 'm fresh bugs. "As he left the man gave his credentials, "I'm from Malta where I raise birds." Heeding the authorities we ran about the lawn catching the early-bird fire flies, but we found out, the hard way that fireflies like popcorn, are not a part of this robin's diet. At this point, as the day became night, I looked at Enid for advice and we both looked at Robin now perched on my big toe. I felt we had been adopted as foster parents and had somehow failed our ward.
    "Oh. there he is," we heard a couple passing us coo. "He's been hanging around the boathouse and we've been feeding him croissants all afternoon." With this secret exposed, little Robin surprised us all by showing us he had the right stuff. He actually soared (for a few seconds, at least) and landed in the euonymus bush to roost for the night.     I learned an important lesson: The next time I find a fledging bird I'll run straight to the nearest croissaniere. This digging worms is for the birds.