252 What Birds Have Done With Me 



have been able to decipher, and I not only still 

 cherish it, but what is more, I never got so much 

 out of any other letter. 



I never thought of Robins as a kind of bird 

 bearing that name, but to me they are all the rela- 

 tives of "Big-Bellied Hen," with whose amazing 

 history I became familiar while still in kilts. Fig- 

 uratively speaking, I never see a "Cock-Robin" 

 without looking around apprehensively for the 

 "Sparrow with his Bow-and-Arrow." Naturally 

 under these circumstances, I feel that I do well 

 to be angry when the Biological Survey, having 

 charge of the enforcement of the Federal Migra- 

 tory Law, yawns and asks the time of day when 

 I send them an account of a Negro having in his 

 possession "A Barrel of Pickled Robins." How 

 many doves would it take to mourn for a barrel 

 of dead Robins? Not enough I fancy to reach the 

 ears of the officials at Washington. 



Going back to those sheep again. A few years 

 ago I was being taken to a Hospital for an opera- 

 tion that promised one chance of recovery in five 

 thousand and the auto, in which I had been placed 

 to ride from the Station to the Hospital, was 

 stopped almost as soon as we got started, by a 

 vast flock of sheep on their way to the stock yards 

 and the shambles. Their voices awoke ten thou- 

 sand old memories and I scrutinized each passing 

 face for resemblance to "Nan and Lilly" my two 



