The Robin 207 



motionless, a foot or more from the nest, on the Umb which held it. Each had 

 gathered itself into as small a space as possible, and, with head drawn close, 

 seemed waiting for something to happen. But their eyes were bright, as 

 they looked out over the vast expanse of the lawn before them — that trackless 

 region, to explore which they dared not yet trust their strength. The fourth 

 one could not be found. The next day two others disappeared, after spending 

 some hours of joyous, happy life on the grass and in the shrubbery. I strongly 

 suspected the Academy cat knew where they had gone. 



Knowing that the family would never return to the nest, I removed it from 

 the limb, for I wanted to see how the wonderful structure was put together. In 

 its building, a framework of slender balsam twigs had first been used. There 

 were sixty-three of these, some of which were as much as a foot in length. Inter- 

 twined with these were twenty fragments of weed stalks and grass stems. The 

 yellow clay cup, which came next inside, varied in thickness from a quarter of 

 an inch at the rim to an inch at the bottom. Grass worked in with the clay while 

 it was yet soft aided in holding it together, and now, last of all, came the smooth, 

 dry carpet of fine grass. The whole structure measured eight inches across the 

 top; inside it was three inches in width, and one and a half deep. It was one of 

 those wonderful objects which is made for a purpose, and it had served that 

 purpose well. 



It is good to watch the Robins when a touch of autumn is in 

 In Winter the air and the wander-lust is strong upon them. On rapidly 



beating wings they drive swiftly across the fields, or pause on 

 the topmost spray of a roadside tree and look eagerly away to the southward. 

 Their calls are sharp and inquisitive. Clearly, the unsuppressed excitement of 

 starting on a long journey pervades their nature. In a little while they will be 

 gone. 



Later you may find them in their winter home, feeding on the black gum 

 trees in a Carolina swamp, the berries of the China tree in Georgia, or the fruit 

 of the cabbage palmetto in Florida. But their whole nature seems to have 

 suffered change. No cheerful notes of song await you, no gathering of food from 

 the grass on the lawn, no drinking from the cup on the window-sill, none of 

 the confiding intimacies so dear to their friends at the North. We see them in 

 flocks, wild and suspicious. Often they gather to feed on the great pine barrens 

 far from the abode of man. They grow fat from much eating, and are hunted for 

 the table. Recently I found strings of them in the markets of Raleigh, and was 

 told they were worth sixty cents a dozen, the highest price I had ever been 

 asked for them. 



Robins in winter sometimes congregate by thousands to roost at a favorite 

 spot, and here the hunters often come to take them, in the manner Audubon 

 tells us people took the Wild Pigeons during the last century. Stories of their 

 killing creep into the public press, and over their coffee men marvel at the 

 slaughter of birds that goes on, sometimes, in their immediate neighborhood^ 



