392 THE ROLL OF THE SEASONS 



winter song, evidently admires man at a distance, 

 and could be induced to make close friends. On 

 some other grounds we would go to the stonechat, 

 as ruddy of breast, with the added glory of black 

 head and white collar, an all-the-year-round bird 

 that comes to the homestead in winter and will 

 accept a winter pension. He would never, however, 

 come to our suburb, and if he did, would not crack 

 jokes at frost and snow like the robin. The stone- 

 chat seems to sit on one post with his shoulder- 

 feathers hunched round his neck, all through the 

 dreary time till the gorse bushes are warm again. 

 There is no bird for the winter garden, for the 

 Christmas morning song, or for our Christmas-cards 

 but the robin. 



He is our own particular robin. Always in the 

 garden, or ready to appear there at a moment's 

 notice. We know that he is also the particular 

 robin of several other gardens, or that he persuades 

 each of the owners that he is that one's own particular 

 Christmas guest. But he never comes flying from 

 afar like the sparrows and starlings. He just appears 

 on the nearest wall or on one of his favourite tree 

 perches. He might as well rise out of the earth, 

 so mysteriously does he incarnate. " You needn't 

 call as though I was in the next parish," he seems to 

 say. " I've been waiting here for the last half-hour." 

 Towards evening he begins to get rather more distant. 

 If he comes for food, it is with just a " tick " of his 

 alarm note, and then, when a shade or two of twilight 

 have fallen, he begs to be excused while he attends 

 to some of his private affairs. He would not for 

 worlds let you know where he sleeps. Most birds 



