Publisher's Synopsis
Half of a small boy protruded from the oven, his stout tan shoes waving convulsively. "Twaddles!" Nora coming into her orderly kitchen was amazed. "Glory be, child, are you making toast of yourself?" The shoes gave a final wriggle and Twaddles deftly backed out of the oven, turning to show a flushed face and a pair of dark, dancing eyes. "What are ye doing?" insisted Norah curiously. "The sponge cake was baked and put away hours ago." "Oh, I don't want any of your sponge cake," Twaddles assured her loftily, forgetting, perhaps, the many times he had hung around the kitchen door during Norah's baking and teased for "just one bite." "I'm life-saving, Norah." "You're what?" asked Norah incredulously. Twaddles sat down comfortably on the stone hearth before the old- fashioned coal range and began to clean caked mud from the soles of his shoes. "It's a robin," he explained. "A sick robin, Norah. I found him on the grass, and he was too cold and wet to fly. Mother used to put 'em in the oven when she was a little girl and that made 'em all well again."
