DAYS AMONG THE ROBINS 127 



ing little thing always distinguished between human 

 and animal steps ; at the soft pad of a dog she would 

 start up and peep inquiringly over the edge of her 

 bark dwelling. 



It was worth while, too, walking close to the 

 home and looking in another direction. Then the 

 mother would hop swiftly off, drop almost flush 

 with the ground, and fly softly into the scrub. 

 But never did she go far away, and, directly the 

 little one gave a call of alarm, the brave parent 

 would go almost frantic with anxiety, and be back 

 putting up a splendidly natural imitation of a young 

 or disabled bird. The Chats, the Ground-Thrushes, 

 and one or two of the Honeyeaters are artists at this 

 ruse, but none of them can spread the feathers and 

 assume the fluffy, babyish appearance of the mother 

 Robin. The effect created is quite pitiful, and more 

 so when the distraught little bird stretches her 

 wings to drag along the ground, and, anon, raises 

 them till the primary feathers touch above the back. 

 As soon, though, as the danger passes, the small 

 actor is herself again, and, on the instant, is cudd- 

 ling her little ones in that typically-tender manner 

 of the Robins. 



Probably these sprites remain faithful to the one 

 partner while life lasts. I have seen three birds 

 feeding a single brood of potential Psalmists, but it 

 seemed to me that number three was a lonely mem- 

 ber of an earlier brood, practising on his baby 

 brethren. 



It was a pair of Yellow Robins which nested in 

 the same district as those particularly devoted 

 parents that provided the most remarkable instance 



