A SUMMER RESIDENT 63 



with us all winter. If visited in the suburban woods 

 they do not show the eager activity of the Snowbirds, 

 Chickadees, and Juncoes, who wrestle incessantly 

 with the problem of a food supply, but perch quietly 

 and rather cheerlessly in the close shades of the 

 Cedars, as if awaiting the return of a more kindly 

 season. A wayfarer, looking anxiously for the 

 swelling of winter buds on the Birches, sees one fly 

 into a closer shade and announces the first Robin of 

 the season. The discovery is none the less welcome 

 that the bird has been within call throughout the year. 

 Farther south these stragglers become more frequent, 

 but the great flocks congregate about the Gulf of 

 Mexico. 



After the days and evenings of song that celebrate 

 the return to their northern home they settle down 

 assiduously to the serious purposes of life. There 

 are no more devoted parents than the Robins. Those 

 gaping beaks rising above the mud-thatched nest, 

 showing the yellow tints of immaturity, seem to have 

 unlimited capacity. Every lawn and open space is 

 searched continuously for food. Keen senses guide 

 them to where the venturesome worms approach the 

 surface. There is something comical in the attitude 

 of an anxious mother Robin with her head turned 

 to one side, so as to bring an eye to bear directly on 

 the ground. A rigid stare — a quick, darting blow — 

 and the attenuated worm is pulled out of its burrow. 



