THE ROBIN. 5 



sunset, sitting on a branch in the softened light 

 and whispering a little song to himself, his senti- 

 ment is the wholesome every-day sort, with none 

 of the sadness or longing of his cousins, the 

 thrushes, but full of contented appreciation of the 

 beautiful world he lives in. 



Unlike some of his human friends, his content 

 does not check his activity. He is full of buoyant 

 life. He may always be heard piping up above 

 the rest of the daybreak chorus, and I have seen 

 him sit on top of a stub in a storm when it seemed 

 as if the harder it rained the louder and more ju- 

 bilantly he sang. He has plenty of pluck and 

 industry, too, for every season he dutifully accepts 

 the burden of seeing three or four broods of bird 

 children through all the dangers of cats, hawks, 



