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, 
139 
