THE ROBIN. 5 
sunset, sitting on a branch in the softened light 
and whispering a little song to himself, his senti- 
ment is the wholesome every-day sort, with none 
of the sadness or longing of his cousins, the 
thrushes, but full of contented appreciation of the 
beautiful world he lives in. 
Unlike some of his human friends, his content 
does not check his activity. He is full of buoyant 
life. He may always be heard piping up above 
the rest of the daybreak chorus, and I have seen 
him sit on top of a stub in a storm when it seemed 
as if the harder it rained the louder and more ju- 
bilantly he sang. He has plenty of pluck and 
industry, too, for every season he dutifully accepts 
the burden of seeing three or four broods of bird 
children through all the dangers of cats, hawks, 
