220 HOMING WITH THE BIRDS 



has a touch of melancholy in his voice, while I am 

 surely right in attributing to him only minor notes. 

 He has a placid face and appealing character, be- 

 cause he keeps on singing even when his nest has 

 been destroyed repeatedly. As nearly as the song 

 can be put into syllables, it is best translated: 

 "Pu-ri-ty, pu-ri-ty, pu-ri-ty ! " with plenty of quaver 

 and not mucli height or depth of tone. 



The bird of our dooryard and orchard, best 

 known of all and probably best loved, is the robin. 

 His tribal call is: "Kip, kip!" and he speaks 

 loudly and plainly when he says it, often as if he 

 desired to attract human attention. This I think 

 he does undoubtedly, since from the beginning of 

 homes in America he has been a bird protected 

 and loved more than any other throughout the 

 North. There are occasions when he has been 

 shot on the grounds that he ate too many cherries, 

 but for one person of my experience who has shot 

 robins, I could name a small host who would be 

 more inclined to shoot the person who shot the bird, 

 than to do the robin any damage. I have been 

 told that in the South, especially in Texas, the 

 robin multiplies in great numbers and becomes 

 intoxicated on fermenting fruit so that his appear- 

 ance is that of a bedraggled toper, and his manners 

 decidedly questionable; but with this phase of his 

 life I am not acquainted. There is no bird song 

 dearer to my heart — not even that of the inimit- 

 able wood thrush. Of course, the wood thrush far 



