Vermont Bird Club 19 



many things, as one may by merging one's own individuality in an- 

 otlier's, even a bird's. 



In lier idyllic sequel to the Secret Garden Mrs. (Frances Hodgson) 

 Burnett says that an intimacy with an English Robin is a liberal edu- 

 cation. She spells it with a capital "R" because he is a "person," an 

 "aristocrat," "patrician"; but while my more democratic American 

 robin answers to the roll-call of the thrushes he is no less a "person" 

 and a "little Soul," a harmony of vibrant life, color and sound. 



Also he is quite as clever and has more psychology, because, in- 

 stead of natural development in the open, there is necessary adapta- 

 tion to human environment, and enforced cerebration along evolution- 

 ary lines that leads one to speculate on future possibilities. 



But to become wholly en rapport, one must be a robin to a robin; 

 of another, and perhaps not entirely superior, order, and yet a robin. 

 So, following Mrs. Burnett's formula, I tried to establish kinship with 

 this "little Soul." "I held myself very still and made tender little 

 robin sounds. I shut my eyes and felt like a robin. I made magic. 

 I lured him with the other and more exquisite sense that speaks with- 

 out speech," she says. 



So I studied the different robin calls as they sounded from matin 

 to vesper in the high elms near by. I twittered and chirped and 

 cheeped. I made shrill sounds, soft sounds; wierd, unholy sounds 

 some of them were, but that improved with diligent practice. I cul- 

 tivated a clear, high whistle till it became chronic, automatic; in short, 

 that whistled itself and finally developed into a robust, full-grown 

 whistle that any small boy might be proud of. 



I did not, myself, know what all these various sounds stood for, 

 but flattered myself that a robin could interpret them. At least it 

 was orthodox robin language, and so I never fail to send a robin's 

 "Good Morning" through the rooms and instantly comes a responsive 

 cry that ends in a rather amateurish whistle, — for Pitty Babe is learn- 

 ing the trick. But he is not deceived. He knows I am only a near- 

 robin and that the call does not come from the high elms. Never- 

 theless, later, I receive a surprisingly sweet reward. 



Concealed in the woodbines I whistle softly, coaxingly. There is 

 a flash of color and a pretty Miss Merula drops from the blue and 

 alights on the telephone wires. She is deceived. She thinks that 

 Pitty Babe is calling her from his cage among the vines. She trills 

 softly. Pitty Babe chirps sociably. I whistle alluringly. She drifts 



