January in Berkeley, 



storms, the same dear friend known 

 of old in Wisconsin summers. The 

 scientists say he is different from his 

 kinsmen east of the Rocky Moun- 

 tains, 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, gorg- 

 ing on berries and roving at his own 

 sweet will, he is, perhaps, 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, prepara- 

 tory 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, spec- 

 ter-like. From its summer home in 

 the far north it has come for the winter, 

 but not like the common robin, full of 

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