8948 Birds. 
If the notion had been reversed it would not seem so preposterous, as we have 
instances of old birds preying on their young among the Falconidz, and indisputable 
_proof of the young being driven from the haunts of their parents ; also among the 
Galline the old cocks are very destructive to the young of their sex. Cats do eat 
robins, but surely this would not thin their numbers in any great degree. Robins may 
die in severe winters, and undoubtedly do; but after mild winters they do not seem 
more plentiful. The last four winters, in the county of Dublin, have been remarkably 
mild, yet there is no perceptible increase in their numbers. My answer to the 
query would be, that the robin migrates: every British species of the family migrates, 
though the stonechat remains in limited numbers in our southern counties of Ireland 
during the winter, though let it be distinctly understood not those individuals that 
breed; they always migrate from this locality, at least, in August, new arrivals 
appearing in October. This species bears, in this respect, a close analogy to the 
robin, and equally with this bird might it bear the odium of killing its parents. The 
robin being more plentiful in summer than winter, clearly proves migration. That it 
is pugnacious there is no doubt, yet not more so than others of the Sylviade, the 
whitethroat, the blackcap, and the stonechat, (familiar examples), which are most 
jealous birds of a favourite locality, as is also the robin. That it seeks a fight I do 
not believe; but when stirred to rivalry by song, or its ground encroached upon, a 
fixht is most probable. Neither does the robin, from choice, seek man’s habitation, 
either in winter or summer; it is as plentiful in the lonely country as near the cottage. 
Without taking into consideration a lonely country hedge-row in a cultivated district, 
J will go to the far west of Ireland—to the wilds of Erris, where the eye will not see a 
tree for miles upon miles, not even a furze-bush to shelter this little warbler, and the 
month is December, where only marshy bog and heathy mountain meets the eye, yet 
there the ear of the hardy sportsman is gladdened occasionally by the song of this 
little pet, as he sits up on a feathery branch of heather. I go back again to the 
county Dublin,—to Dalkey Island,—on the lonely and rocky coast of which the robin 
may be seen in winter: but here I never heard it sing—it seems too intent on hiding 
itself in the crevices of the rocks, not gazing at you with its mellow eye as from the 
roof of a shed in the farm-yard. In its rocky retreat what cares it for man’s habitation, 
while the sand-flies hybernate in thousands in the cracks of the granite, and the 
silken huts of spiders are in hundreds; but snow and frost come—then the dung-hill 
and the warm thatch are weleome—a rafter makes a snugger perch for roosting than 
the frozen rock. The snow is frozen from the chimney ; here he perches and gives 
forth his wild song—he is aroused by a rival—see how intent he listens; all his soul, 
I might say, is centred now in his song—nothing disturbs him ; there he sits for an 
hour or more singing, regardless of cold, till a window is opened, some crumbs are 
laid on the sill; he flies to it because bis natural fuod, insects and berries, are now 
scarce. The spring has come, and with his mate be builds a nest in the ivied wall, 
the rafters, the thatch, the hay-rick, the mossy bank, the rovt of the monarch of the 
forest,—anywhere he is at home, but he does not feel safe from enemies; materials to 
match the surrounding objects of his home are always collected for the nest—withered 
leaves in the woods, moss fur the mossy bank, hay for the farm-yard, and stalks to 
match the gray wall and ivy. Poor little bird! happy would you be if your nest was 
not taken by ruthless schoolboys, for in Ireland you are not spared.—H. Blake- Knox ; 
Bartragh, Dalkey, Co. Dublin, January 22, 1864. 
OO 
