Robin

THRU the valley mist on this early August morning a ROBIN is half-heartedly singing. The notes lack the zest and vigor of Spring but they carry me back over half a century to a morning in April when I walked with my father in Prospect Park, Brooklyn.

He stopped to talk with a "cop" on the number of birds feeding in the Long Meadow.

"Weel, it's gude ter see the Fieldfares here -- bonny as on the moors o' home. Our birds hav' no' ther red."

"He called them Fieldfares — they're Robins!"

Note that the question mark is absent. I had opinions even at the age of eight. Father explained that "Fieldfare" was the European name of a related species and tried to have me read Nuttall's description of our Robin. Without success for the bird fever did not hit me until two years later, after father's death. I have always been glad, tho, that I yielded to his wishes and learned to recite for him a poem from English Poets which I still remember. (The book was added to some bibliothief's collection, thereby illustrating a quirk in human ethics I have never understood — many will steal obiects for their collections who would not take pennies belonging to others.)

"Little bird with bosom red —
Welcome to my humble shed!
Courtly domes of high degree
Have no room for thee or me."

The author? — I have forgotten.

Robin eggs were the cornerstone of my egg collection and from the day I was nabbed when taking them from a nest in the park, Robins have been associated more often than other species with my bird adventures.

Toward noon the breeze wore from the nor'ard around into the sou'east, trailing a November fog in its skirts.

The fishing schooner Eva and Annie usually was easy to steer. She was another proposition, tho, when loaded deep with a breeze on the quarter.

"Take her while I get the lead goin'. And don' let her edge out! Nor'west won't much more'n make Minot's, tho the course is west."

That bucket certainly seemed to know the Skipper's hand was no longer on the spokes and made up her mind to have a romp all over the feathered jade green waters.

Andrews came astern.

" 'bout off 'Peaked.' There's some passengers come aboard for'ard. Friends o'yours. Better see 'em."

Five Robins had landed in the bows and were resting on hawser coils. I gathered them up, too tired to protest much; gave them freedom of the cabin, and shooed the lot out of the companionway when lights commenced twinkling in Boston town.

Your feathered form we'd love to see
Upon your favorite appletree.
We'd love to hear
Your sweet and clear
Announcement of your coming.
But do not trust the calendar;
You'll be far happier where you are;
For tho' it's spring
The frosts still sting
And wintry winds are humming!

If come you must, you'd better tote
An extra heavy overcoat,
For still there may
Arrive some day
A Marchy sort of blizzard.
And tho the snows may disappear,
The gales we have this time of year
With icy sleet
Will coat your feet
And chill you to the gizzard!

We cannot tell you how we long
To hear once more your evening song,
But while the cold
Won't lease its hold,
And snowflakes whirl and flurry,
If you will take a friendly tip
You will not make that northward trip
For some weeks yet
So do not get
In too darned big a hurry!
—Montague

The poet's prophecy came true a few years ago here in southern New England. The first three weeks of March were fair and beguiling as Cleopatra or any other ancient or modern Circe and then — "the woman scorned!" She remained in that mood for the last three days of gales and continuous snow. That fit of temper killed thousands of Robins and just about wiped out Bluebirds.

Robins adapt themselves readily to changed natural conditions and are among the most friendly of our birds. They have a self-confident, almost martial air which wins and holds our admiration. Watch one run swiftly across the lawn, stop suddenly, stand so straight as to seem balanced on its tail; then bend horizontally with saucily cocked head, listening. There is little doubt its hearing reveals the worm moving beneath, and after a few energetic jabs the victim is usually hauled forth.

Before the blizzard, sixteen pairs nested around the house. The number since has never been more than six. They are quick to note the absence of their arch enemy, the domestic cat, and often build in colonies where Grimalkin prowleth not. (The "wood cats" which wander into my orchard are presented with an opportunity of traveling on the Supernatural Unlimited.)

In some states Robins were listed under "game birds." Think of it! This ruddy vested songster with scarce meat enuf on its bones for one bite; — a game bird! — Shades of Frank Forester!

Happily, state laws on migratory birds have been superseded and since placed under federal protection their destruction is no longer allowed in the United States.

Their appeal is as wide as their range which is universal in North America.

I have picked them up under pokeberry bushes and chokecherry trees, cargoed so heavily with the fruit — with juice streaming over their vests — that they were unable to move. Since gluttony kills far more often than drunkeness, there should be an amendment to the Volstead law prohibiting over-indulgence in food by birds and other people!

A robin built its nest last spring near the top of a pile of white oak planking belonging to the Birch Valley Lumber Company of Toga, West Virginia. When a Philadelphia lumber concern sought to buy the lumber it received the following answer: — "If you should care for this car of lumber we would not accept your order unless we could hold same for two or three weeks. The truth is, a robin built a nest in the pile and has hatched out a nice family. We are going to give them a chance." Gentlemen — all!