MY GA RDEN A CQ UAINTANCE. g 



cunning thieves preferred the foreign flavour. Could I tax 

 them with want of taste ? 



The robins are not good solo singers, but their chorus, as, 

 like primitive fire-worshippers, they hail the return of light 

 and warmth to the world, is unrivalled. There are a 

 hundred singing like one. They are noisy enough then, 

 and sing, as poets should, with no afterthought. But when 

 they come after cherries to the tree near my window, they 

 muffle their voices, and their faint pip, pip, pop ! sounds far 

 away at the bottom of the garden, where they know I shall 

 not suspect them of robbing the great black-walnut of its 

 bitter-rinded store.* They are feathered Pecksniffs, to be 

 sure, but then how brightly their breasts, that look rather 

 shabby in the sunlight, shine in a rainy day against the 

 dark green of the fringe-tree ! After they have pinched 

 and shaken all the life out of an earthworm, as Italian 

 cooks pound all the spirit out of a steak, and then gulped 

 him, they stand up in honest self-confidence, expand their 

 red waistcoats with the virtuous air of a lobby member, 

 and outface you with an eye that calmly challenges inquiry. 

 &quot; Do / look like a bird that knows the flavour of raw 

 vermin? I throw myself upon a jury of my peers. Ask 

 any robin if he ever ate anything less ascetic than the 

 frugal berry of the juniper, and he will answer that his 

 vow forbids him.&quot; Can such an open bosom cover such 

 depravity 1 Alas, yes ! I have no doubt his breast was 

 redder at that very moment with the blood of my rasp 

 berries. On the whole, he is a doubtful friend in the 

 garden. He makes his dessert of all kinds of berries, and 

 is not averse from early pears. But when we remember 

 how omnivorous he is, eating his own weight in an 

 incredibly short time, and that Nature seems exhaust- 

 less in her invention of new insects hostile to vegetation, 

 perhaps we may reckon that he does more good than harm. 



* The screech-owl, whose cry, despite his ill name, is one of the 

 sweetest sounds in nature, softens his voice in the same way with the 

 most beguiling mockery of distance. 



