The Robin 207 
motionless, a foot or more from the nest, on the limb which held it. Each had 
gathered itself into as small a space as possible, and, with head drawn close, 
seemed waiting for something to happen. But their eyes were bright, as 
they looked out over the vast expanse of the lawn before them—that trackless 
region, to explore which they dared not yet trust their strength. The fourth 
one could not be found. The next day two others disappeared, after spending 
some hours of joyous, happy life on the grass and in the shrubbery. I strongly 
suspected the Academy cat knew where they had gone. 
Knowing that the family would never return to the nest, I removed it from 
the limb, for I wanted to see how the wonderful structure was put together. In 
its building, a framework of slender balsam twigs had first been used. There 
were sixty-three of these, some of which were as much as a foot in length. Inter- 
twined with these were twenty fragments of weed stalks and grass stems. The 
yellow clay cup, which came next inside, varied in thickness from a quarter of 
an inch at the rim to an inch at the bottom. Grass worked in with the clay while 
it was yet soft aided in holding it together, and now, last of all, came the smooth, 
dry carpet of fine grass. The whole structure measured eight inches across the 
top; inside it was three inches in width, and one and a half deep. It was one of 
those wonderful objects which is made for a purpose, and it had served that 
purpose well. 
It is good to watch the Robins when a touch of autumn is in 
In Winter the air and the wander-lust is strong upon them. On rapidly 
beating wings they drive swiftly across the fields, or pause on 
the topmost spray of a roadside tree and look eagerly away to the southward. 
Their calls are sharp and inquisitive. Clearly, the unsuppressed excitement of 
starting on a long journey pervades their nature. In a little while they will be 
gone. 
Later you may find them in their winter home, feeding on the black gum 
trees in a Carolina swamp, the berries of the China tree in Georgia, or the fruit 
of the cabbage palmetto in Florida. But their whole nature seems to have 
suffered change. No cheerful notes of song await you, no gathering of food from 
the grass on the lawn, no drinking from the cup on the window-sill, none of 
the confiding intimacies so dear to their friends at the North. We see them in 
flocks, wild and suspicious. Often they gather to feed on the great pine barrens 
far from the abode of man. They grow fat from much eating, and are hunted for 
the table. Recently I found strings of them in the markets of Raleigh, and was 
told they were worth sixty cents a dozen, the highest price I had ever been 
asked for them. 
Robins in winter sometimes congregate by thousands to roost at a favorite 
spot, and here the hunters often come to take them, in the manner Audubon 
tells us people took the Wild Pigeons during the last century. Stories of their 
killing creep into the public press, and over their coffee men marvel at the 
slaughter of birds that goes on, sometimes, in their immediate neighborhood. 
