THE AMERICAN ROBIN- 



She reared three broods that season; 

 for the third family she returned to 

 the piazza, and repaired the first nest. 

 The following Spring she came again 

 to the piazza, but selected another 

 pillar for the site of her domicile, the 

 construction of which was a decided 

 improvement upon the first. For the 

 next nest she returned to the Oak and 

 raised a second story on the old one of 

 the previous year, but making it much 

 more sy metrical than the one beneath. 

 The present season her first dwelling 

 was as before, erected on a pillar of 

 the piazza — as fine a structure as I 

 ever saw this species build. When 

 this brood was fledged she again 

 repaired to the Oak, and reared a 

 third story on the old domicile, using 

 the moss before mentioned, making a 

 very elaborate affair, and finally 

 finishing up by festooning it with long 

 sprays of moss. This bird and her 



mate were quite tame. I fed them 

 with whortleberries, which they 

 seemed to relish, and they would come 

 almost to my feet to get them. " 



The amount of food which the 

 young robin is capable of absorbing is 

 enormous. A couple of vigorous, 

 half-grown birds have been fed, and 

 in twelve hours devoured ravenously, 

 sixty-eight earth worms, weighing 

 thirty-four pennyweight, or forty-one 

 per cent more than their own weight. 

 A man at this rate should eat about 

 seventy pounds of flesh per day, and 

 drink five or six gallons of water. 



The following poem by the good 

 Quaker poet Whittier is sweet because 

 he wrote it, interesting because it re- 

 cites an old legend which incidentally 

 explains the color of the robin's breast, 

 and unique because it is one of the 

 few poems about our American bird. 



THE ROBIN. 



My old Welsh neighbor over the way 

 Crept slowly out in the sun of spring, 



Pushed from her ears the locks of gray. 

 And listened to hear the robin sing. 



Her grandson, playing at marbles, stopped, 

 And — cruel in sport, as boys will be — 



Tossed a stone at the bird, who hopped 

 From bough to bough in the apple tree. 



" Nay!" said the grandmother ; " have you 

 not heard, 



My poor, bad boy! of the fiery pit. 

 And how, drop by drop, this merciful bird 



Carries the water that quenches it ? 



"He brings cool dew in his little bill. 

 And lets it fall on the souls ol sin: 

 You can see the mark on his red breast still 

 Of fires that scorch as he drops it in. 



"My poor Bron rhuddj^n! my breast-burned 

 bird, 

 Singing so sweetly from limb to limb, 

 Very dear to the heart of Our Lord 

 Is he who pities the lost like Him." 



"Amen!" I said to the beautiful myth ; 



" Sing, bird of God, in my heart as well: 

 Each good thought is a drop wherewith 

 To cool and lessen the fires of hell. 



"Prayers of love like rain-drops fall, 

 Tears of pity are cooling dew, 

 And dear to the heart of Our Lord are all 

 Who suffer like Him in the good they do." 



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