76 BIRDS AND POETS 
From my dining-room window I look, or did 
look, out upon a long stretch of smooth meadow, 
and as pretty a spring sight as I ever wish to behold 
was this field, sprinkled all over with robins, their 
red breasts turned toward the morning sun, or their 
pert forms sharply outlined against lingering patches 
of snow. Every morning for weeks I had those 
robins for breakfast; but what they had I never 
could find out. 
After the leaves are out, and gayer colors come 
into fashion, the robin takes a back seat. He goes 
to housekeeping in the old apple-tree, or, what he 
likes better, the cherry-tree. A pair reared their 
domestic altar (of mud and dry grass) in one of the 
latter trees, where I saw much of them. The cock 
took it upon himself to keep the tree free of all 
other robins during cherry time, and its branches 
were the scene of some lively tussles every hour in 
the day. The innocent visitor would scarcely alight 
before the jealous cock was upon him; but while he 
was thrusting the intruder out at one side, a second 
would be coming in on the other. He managed, 
however, to protect his cherries very well, but had 
so little time to eat the fruit himself that we got 
fully our share. 
I have frequently seen the robin courting, and 
have always been astonished and amused at the 
utter coldness and indifference of the female. The 
females of every species of birds, however, I believe, 
have this in common,—they are absolutely free 
from coquetry, or any airs and wiles whatever. In 
