JANUARY IN BERKELEY 



dered with stripes of white and black, and the female has a 

 similar but simpler crown, with the light yellow replacing the 

 orange. Equally distinct are the notes of the two species. 

 The golden-crown utters a high, pensive, far-away lisp of a 

 note, which is an unfailing sign of the proximity of a troop of 

 these birds, while the ruby-crown has a fine, delicate under- 

 tone of chatter to indicate its whereabouts. 



I have been told that the robin is not found in this part of 

 the country, yet here he is in the January rain and storms, the 

 same dear friend known of old in Wisconsin summers. The 

 scientists say he is different from his kinsmen east of the Rocky 

 Mountains, because he has an eighth of an inch less white on 

 the tip of his tail, but for all this I claim him for the same. In 

 January, when he is ranging over the Berkeley hills in flocks, 

 gorging on berries and roving at his own sweet will, he is, per- 

 haps, less attractive than in the summer-time, when the duties 

 of the home are all-engrossing, but I am partial to him even at 

 this season, and rejoice with him as he utters his high, animated 

 call-note, preparatory to launching forth on buoyant wing. 



The varied robin is exclusively a bird of the Pacific Coast. 

 In some shady recess amid the live-oaks or laurels it lurks — 

 silent, retiring, specter-like. From its summer home in the far 

 north it has come for the winter, but not like the common robin, 

 full of joy and vivacity. Some deep, brooding sorrow seems 

 to have fallen upon it to quench its song and leave it medita- 

 tive and lonely. It seldom congregates in flocks of any consid- 

 erable size, although two or three are as a rule in the same 

 vicinity. In size this species is about the same as the common 

 robin, from which it may be instantly distinguished, however, 

 by the presence of a black crescent upon the breast, extending 



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