44 THE NIDOLOGIST 
and the character of its surroundings. This tree 
was afterward felled by my father and myself— 
a matter easily accomplished on account of the 
fact that its base was a mere shell, while the 
tree itself leaned at an angle of some thirty 
degrees from the perpendicular ; nevertheless, 
a considerable amount of chopping across the 
side of tension was necessary before it gave 
way and fell. The somewhat enlarged base of 
this tree was twenty-six feet in circumference, 
and the hollow within reaching through an 
arched opening on the side opposite to the one 
shown in the sketch, had been used by fisher- 
men for a camping or cooking place. Some 
seven feet above the ground the girth was six- 
teen anda half feet. The cavity containing the 
nest was eighty-nine feet from the base, and 
was caused by the breaking off of a main 
branch (here four feet in diameter), the upper 
part of which projected over sufficiently to 
afford some protection from both sun and rain. 
The total length of the tree, although the whole 
top had been blasted by storms, was one hundred 
and fifteen feet. Four full-fledged young were 
found, only one of which had been killed out- 
right by the fall, though two others were so 
badly injured that it was necessary to kill 
them. The fourth was entirely uninjured, and 
was kept for some time in captivity, eventual- 
ly, however, making its escape. 
LA 
Smithsonian Institute, Dec. 9, 1895. 
Robin. 
T ts only the Robin I am writing about ; 
but why not an excellent subject after 
all? 
The “dear bird” whose inborn, lovable na- 
ture prompted it to cover the babes in the wood 
with fallen leaves. 
The “poor little Robin,” as he sits in the apple 
tree on an early winter’s morning and encour- 
ages in the cold blast with his hearty chirrup 
the sturdy farmer’s boy, whose joints and cow- 
hide boots both creak in the frosty air as he 
stubs his way over the hills to look to his traps 
on the neighboring slough or lake. 
The “Robin Redbreast”’ of the household, 
where it matters not that his breast is not red 
at all, and that the ‘‘Redcoat” is the Briton’s 
and not a Yankee epithet. 
These various things we have heard of the 
Robin from our youth. We have vied with 
our companions in our anxiety to welcome the 
first Robin in spring, and the joyous news, “I 
saw a Robin this morning,” ever and again will 
Inspire us with thoughts of the grass and flow- 
ers, of shaded streams and woodlands, and of 
meadowed fields so: peaceful—of a summer 
time to come. 
Yet this is the so bitterly condemned little 
thief of the orchard and garden, that destroys 
so many cherries and other fruits as to make 
the farmers and horticulturists about equally 
divided in opinion as to which way the evidence, 
accurately known, would throw the balance in 
the case of this hardy ‘Robin Hood.” 
My Ornithological readers, I trust, love, if 
possible, all birds, so we will not bother our- 
selves with the comparative veracity of these 
good and bad statements. 
Satisfied, as I am, that the subject of this 
rambling talk is of real economical importance, 
even where he is most roundly abused-—I have 
so often seen him partaking of the largest and 
most perfectly ripened cherries upon the top- 
most branches of the ladened trees, while I, of 
necessity, was eating of the poorer fruit below— 
I cannot refrain from allowing my sister from 
Convent School, who has just invaded my 
“den,” from abusing as she may, with nothing 
more harsh than the weapons of a poetic 
fancy, this bird of all birds so thoroughly a 
type of the true American. Iam informed, for 
my own peace of mind, that the word “ others,” 
used below, refers to me. 
Then, with this joke in verse, we leave the 
‘Robin to ply his independent way in peace: 
The scene was the bank of a crystal brook 
Where a saucy young Robin had paused to look, 
As the morning sun had gilded the waves 
Which sparkled and sang thro’ the autumn days. 
He glanced at the leaves, that had copied his breast, 
The leaves that in springtime had shielded his nest; 
Then turning his head with a bird-like grace, 
He searched in-the stream for his mirrored face. 
Not his mottled coat of rusty brown 
He saw in the brook-bed sloping down, 
But a touch of gray with an amber dab— 
The reflected form of a brooklet crab. 
He gazed in surprise at the specter-like thing, 
Then chirping aloud and raising each wing, 
In terror he turned from the ghost-haunted place 
And met on the bank the real crab face to face. 
Young Robins, like ‘‘others,” are inclined to be 
Sayer 
And our hero’s misfortune occurred in this way: 
He considered a moment; his foe seemed quite weak, 
And he ventured a peck with his slim, shiny beak. 
A flutter, a scream—up the bank Robin came ; 
He found two could play at the same little game, 
And the waves as they fled, with a smile and a 
gleam, 
Carried crab and brown feathers adown with the 
stream. 
L. WHITNEY WATKINS. 
5 
Our next number will contain a half-tone portrait 
of A. W. Anthony, the active Western Ornithologist. 
