THE ROBIN REDBREAST 



bordering the Mediterranean has nothing to 

 do with religion, but is merely the result of 

 a pernicious habit of killing all manner of 

 small birds for the table. The sight of rows 

 of dead robins laid out on poulterers' stalls 

 in the markets of Italy and southern France 

 inspires such righteous indignation in British 

 tourists as to make them forget for the 

 moment that larks are exposed in the same 

 way in Bond Street and at Leadenhall. In 

 Italy and Provence, taught by sad experience 

 the robin is as shy as any other small bird. 

 It has learnt its lesson like the robins in the 

 north, but the lesson is different. The most 

 friendly robin I ever remember meeting with, 

 out of England was in a garden attached to 

 a cafe in Trebizond, where, hopping round 

 my chair and picking up crumbs, it made me 

 feel curiously at home. Similar treatment of 

 other wild birds would in time produce the 

 same result, and even the suspicious starling 

 and stand-off rook might be taught to forget 

 their fear of us. The robin, feeding less on 

 fruit and grain than on worms and insects, 

 has not made an enemy of the farmer or 

 gardener. The common, too common, sparrow, 

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