OUR ROBIN REDBREAST.
Almost every child knows the robin redbreast. He is a great favorite
wherever he goes. We have him with us in Southern California only
in winter time for a few weeks after the rains have come. When our
ground is mellow with moisture, and the angle-worms have worked their
way to the top, leaving little loose hillocks all about the yard,
then we look out for a visit from the robins.
They come in companies great enough to fill the tree-tops, and their
constant song reminds us of old times when we lived in the New
England States.
Robins are "water birds" in a way, although they do not swim. They
are perfectly at home in wet grass or foliage, and even in a rain
storm. They never seem to have any use for umbrellas.
Once, while on a visit to some friends in the east, we found two
baby robins which were blown from their nest in a storm. We fed them
with bread soaked in milk, and fresh beef, and they thrived. We shut
them in an empty room upstairs, and they soon learned to look for us
and to know our step. They would fly to the crack of the doorway and
squeal when they heard us coming. Before we dared open the door, we
had to push the birds away, for fear they would be caught and hurt.
[Illustration: Robin.]
When we were ready to start for our California home, we put the
robins in a cage, taking as much food as we thought they would need
on the journey. In a day or two the meat gave out, and they grew
tired of bread and water. They coaxed constantly for beef, so we
asked a porter on our car to get some for them.
By this time most of the passengers had become interested in our
robins, and a gentleman offered to keep them in beef for the rest of
the journey. He would go out once a day, when the train stopped long
enough, and buy some beef. Our pets came to be quite an attraction
in the car, and everybody was anxious to do something for the little
travellers.
We took the birds to the dressing-room each day to clean the cage
and to give them a bath. We washed them one at a time, in our hands,
holding them under the gently flowing faucet. At first they objected,
but they soon grew to like it.
During the first year they never sang a note, for their unmusical
squeak could certainly not be called singing. The second spring
we gave them a large cage in the yard, that they might make the
acquaintance of other birds. In a short time an old mocking-bird came
and gave them music lessons.
The teacher would twist his toes around the wires of the cage, in
this way holding himself close to the birds. Then he would twitter
softly, until the young birds had learned to respond and to twitter
too.
When at last the robins did have a song, it was a mixture of robin
and mocking-bird notes. They did not speak pure robin all that year.
After they were grown-up birds, the mocker who had taught them music
took a great dislike to them. This was very strange, for he had been
so fond of his little pupils, dropping berries down through the cage
wires, and calling them all sorts of pet names in his own language.
Now he would scold them and peck at them and scare them, until we
were obliged to cover a part of the cage.
In a year or two the male robin got out of the cage and flew away. We
could hear him far out of sight in the trees, but he would not come
back, though we called to him in our kindest tones. He was out all
night, and we supposed he was dead, as he was at the mercy of the
mocking-birds.
What was our surprise early in the morning to find him on the
hitching-post near the house, with his bill wide open, screaming for
his breakfast. But he would not let us put our hands on him.
Then we thought of a plan to catch him, the same by which wild
animals are sometimes caught. We scattered some crumbs from the post
where he sat to the door of the cage, and Robin went to picking
them up, of course, being very hungry and not thinking about the
consequences. He followed the trail of the crumbs until, before he
knew it, he was safe within the cage and the door was shut.
Once again he got away from us, but we knew he would come back at
meal-time, if the shrikes and the mockers did not find him. Birds
which have lived for a while in a cage seem to be perfectly helpless
when out at liberty, not knowing how to find food for themselves, and
dying of hunger in the midst of plenty.
Sure enough, at supper time Robin came back, clamoring for his share.
There was a soft, moist place in the garden where we were in the
habit of digging worms for the robins at night. We took the cage and
set it down by this place, with the door tied back.
We went to work with the spade, pretending not to notice the little
runaway, who hopped close to us and screamed at his little innocent
mate in the cage. We threw some worms in at the open door for the
bird on the inside, who ate them, taking no notice of her companion
on the outside.
Suddenly the outsider hopped to the hole where we were digging and
tried to grab the worms before we had time to pick them up. But we
cheated him, understanding his little game, and dodged past him
with the coveted worms. He, standing on tiptoe, danced about in the
funniest fashion, still trying to snatch the worms. All at once,
taunting him with a good long-worm, we threw it past him into the
cage. Away the bird ran after it, and the little fellow who loved so
well to "play hookie" was caught once more.
[Illustration]