If every bird has his vocation, as a poetical French writer suggests,
that of the American robin must be to inspire cheerfulness and
contentment in men. His joyous “Cheer up! Cheer up! Cheery! Be cheery!
Be cheery!” poured out in the early morning from the top branch of the
highest tree in the neighborhood, is one of the most stimulating sounds
of spring. He must be unfeeling, indeed, who can help deserting his bed
and peering through blinds till he discovers the charming philosopher,
with head erect and breast glowing in the dawning light, forgetting the
cares of life in the ecstasy of song.
Besides admonishing others to cheerfulness, the robin sets the example.
Not only is his cheering voice the first in the morning and the last at
night,--of the day birds,--but no rain is wet enough to dampen his
spirits. In a drizzly, uncomfortable day, when all other birds go about
their necessary tasks of food-hunting in dismal silence, the robin is
not a whit less happy than when the sun shines; and his cheery voice
rings out to comfort not only the inmates of the damp little home in the
maple, but the owners of waterproofs and umbrellas who mope in the
house.
The most delightful study of one summer, not long ago, was the daily
life, the joys and sorrows, of a family of robins, whose pretty castle
in the air rested on a stout fork of a maple-tree branch near my
window. Day by day I watched their ways till I learned to know them
well.
When I first took my seat I felt like an intruder, which the robin
plainly considered me to be. He eyed me with the greatest suspicion,
alighting on the ground in a terrible flutter, resolved to brave the
ogre, yet on the alert, and ready for instant flight should anything
threaten. The moment he touched the ground, he would lower his head and
run with breathless haste five or six feet; then stop, raise his head as
pert as a daisy, and look at the monster to see if it had moved. After
convincing himself that all was safe, he would turn his eyes downwards,
and in an instant thrust his bill into the soil where the sod was thin,
throwing up a little shower of earth, and doing this again and again, so
vehemently that sometimes he was taken off his feet by the jerk. Then he
would drag out a worm, run a few feet farther in a panic-stricken way,
as though “taking his life in his hands,” again look on the ground, and
again pull out a worm; all the time in an inconsequent manner, as though
he had nothing particular on his mind, and merely collected worms by way
of passing the time.
So he would go on, never eating a morsel, but gathering worms till he
had three or four of the wriggling creatures hanging from his firm
little beak. Then he would fly to a low branch, run up a little way,
take another short flight, and thus having, as he plainly intended by
this zigzag course, completely deceived the observer as to his
destination, he would slip quietly to the nest and quickly dispose of
his load. In half a minute he was back again, running and watching, and
digging as before. And this work he kept up nearly all day,--in silence,
too, for, noisy and talkative as the bird is, he keeps his mouth shut
when on the ground. In all my watching of robins for years in several
places, I scarcely ever heard one make a sound when on the ground, near
a human dwelling.
I was surprised to discover, in my close attention to them, that
although early to rise, robins are by no means early to bed. Long after
every feather was supposed to be at rest for the night, I would sit out
and listen to the gossip, the last words, the scraps of song,--different
in every individual robin, yet all variations on the theme, “Be
cheery,”--and often the sharp “He he he he he!” so like a girl’s laugh,
out of the shadowy depths of the maple.
One of the most interesting entertainments of the later days was to hear
the young birds’ music lesson. In the early morning the father would
place himself in the thickest part of the tree, not as usual in plain
sight on the top, and with his pupil near him would begin, “Cheery!
cheery! be cheery!” in a loud, clear voice; and then would follow a
feeble, wavering, uncertain attempt to copy the song. Again papa would
chant the first strain, and baby would pipe out his funny notes. This
was kept up, till in a surprisingly short time, after much daily
practice both with the copy and without, I could hardly tell father from
son.
The baby robin taken apart from his kind is an interesting study.
Before he can fairly balance himself on his uncertain, wavering little
legs, or lay claim to more than the promise of a tail, he displays the
brave, self-reliant spirit of his race. He utters loud, defiant calls,
pecks boldly at an intruding hand, and stands--as well as he is
able--staring one full in the face without blinking, asserting by his
attitude and by every bristling feather that he is a living being; and,
in the depths of your soul, you cannot gainsay him. If you have already,
in his helpless infancy, made him captive, the blush of shame arises,
and you involuntarily throw wide the prison-doors.
--OLIVE THORNE MILLER.
_By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston._