3 88 THE ROLL OF THE SEASONS 



on some upstanding mound in the newly turned 

 garden, on the spade-handle, or the barrow-shaft, 

 sits the familiar red-breasted robin. It is his garden. 

 He sits in it where he will. His man dug it while 

 he watched, and he likes to spend a good deal of 

 his time among the clods, the purpose of which he 

 alone of all the birds understands. Every now and 

 then he comes to the lawn and clears away the 

 rabble gathered there at their ignoble feast. The 

 sparrows eat for eating's sake, but the robin, when 

 he has driven them away, merely pecks at the food 

 for possession's sake. You can never say that you 

 have seen the robin " on the feed." He is never 

 pressed for time like a hen sparrow, that sits and 

 gobbles as though for dear life ; he never condescends 

 to struggle with his food like a blackbird with a 

 worm, or a thrush hammering out a snail ; nor does 

 he hunt a wall or minutely search a tree-trunk for 

 grubs like a tit. As he dances about, intent, to all 

 appearances, only upon the dance, his bold eye is 

 aware of some morsel small enough to be eaten with 

 decency, and in the midst of a figure he takes it, 

 checking less than did Atalanta when she stooped 

 in mid-course for a golden apple. Napoleon, von 

 Moltke, Frederick the Great, Charlemagne, and the 

 other conquerors, we may be sure, had the same 

 kingly control of appetite. Our robin, at any rate, 

 could not be the king he is without it. If he should 

 go and guzzle like some common sparrow in a corner 

 of the garden, in that instant the rabble would gain 

 a footing from which even his imperiousness could 

 not dislodge them. 



We may be sure, too, that the robin owes his 



