ROBIN 



blades from underneath it, and on the sunny side of each little 

 hummock working to pick off mud for plaster. 



They located where the logs crossed at a corner over a back 

 door and built this nest. A finer piece of Robin architecture 

 would be hard to find. There were no twigs to be used. They 

 couldn't find any. All the material they had to draw on was a 

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

 Mother Robin was brooding and the rest of her kind had not yet 

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

 them to find, and everything was going well. 



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

 spots to the south, and his music never sounded so mellow and 

 fine as when no 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-arbor in a tumult of excite- 

 ment and startled me by his alarm cries. I hurried out, but could 

 see nothing to frighten him. I looked at the nest, and his mate 

 was not there. For hours 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 for the shed, thinking some harm might have 

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

 and gray feathers, and our neighbor's cat slinked away licking her 

 chops. She had dined off a bird on our premises 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; 



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