THE EOBIN 



Not long after the bluebird comes the robin. 

 In large numbers they scour the fields and groves. 

 You hear their piping in the meadow, in the pas- 

 ture, on the hillside. Walk in the woods, and the 

 dry leaves rustle with the whir of their wings, 

 the air is vocal with their cheery call. In excess 

 of joy and vivacity, they run, leap, scream, chase 

 each other through the air, diving and sweeping 

 among the trees with perilous rapidity. 



In that free, fascinating, half-work-and-half- 

 play pursuit, — sugar-making, — a pursuit which 

 still lingers in many parts of New York, as in 

 New England, — the robin is one's constant com- 

 panion. When the day is sunny and the ground 

 bare, you meet him at all points and hear him at 

 all hours. At sunset, on the tops of the tall 

 maples, with look heavenward, and in a spirit of 

 utter abandonment, he carols his simple strain. 

 And sitting thus amid the stark, silent trees, 

 above the wet, cold earth, with the chill of winter 

 still in the air, there is no fitter or sweeter song- 

 ster in the whole round year. It is in keeping 

 with the scene and the occasion. How round and 

 genuine the notes are, and how eagerly our ears 



