ROBIN 



was a very little mud and dry grass-blades. The eggs were laid, 

 Mother Robin was brooding before the remainder of her kind 

 had arrived. I kept out a supply of food, as there was none for 

 them to find, and everything was going well. 



Robin sang his heart out from the old roof and sunny spots 

 to the south, while his music never sounded so mellow and fine as 

 when few other birds were singing. February might bluster and 

 rave and March empty her watering-pot in icy showers over us, 

 but first in the morning and last at night we were cheered by the 

 voice of our loved Robin. 



One morning he came on the grape-arbour in a tumult of ex- 

 citement, startling me by his alarm cries. I hurried out, but 

 could see nothing to frighten him. I looked at the nest, but his 

 mate was not there. He kept up his flight and cries. Then I 

 took a step-ladder and examined the nest. The eggs were cold, 

 but there was no sign of an Owl or violence of any kind. 



Then I started to the shed, thinking some harm might have 

 befallen her there, and ran across a little heap of bloody bones 

 and gray feathers, while our neighbour's cat slinked away licking 

 her chops. On our premises she had dined off a bird that money 

 or time never could replace. I do not care for cats. 



For a week Robin mourned his mate, searched and called for 

 her until we were almost distracted with him, then one day his 

 song piped up again, for the south had sent his kind and he was 

 courting. He really seemed apologetic when he flew down on the 

 lawn with his second choice and introduced us. Xo wonder! 

 She was a young thing, she was bedrabbled, while she was one of 

 those foolish, jumpy, nervous birds that never will act with sense, 

 because they have none. 



If ever a male tried to dominate the choice of a location it 

 was our Robin. I gave up long before he did. He carried grass- 

 blades to the old location. Oh, dear no! she never would enter a 



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