76 BIRDS AND POETS 



From my dining-room window I look, or did 

 look, out upon a long stretch of smooth meadow, 

 and as pretty a spring sight as I ever wish to behold 

 was this field, sprinkled all over with robins, their 

 red breasts turned toward the morning sun, or their 

 pert forms sharply outlined against lingering patches 

 of snow. Every morning for weeks I had those 

 robins for breakfast; but what they had I never 

 could find out. 



After the leaves are out, and gayer colors come 

 into fashion, the robin takes a back seat. He goes 

 to housekeeping in the old apple-tree, or, what he 

 likes better, the cherry-tree. A pair reared their 

 domestic altar (of mud and dry grass) in one of the 

 latter trees, where I saw much of them. The cock 

 took it upon himself to keep the tree free of all 

 other robins during cherry time, and its branches 

 were the scene of some lively tussles every hour in 

 the day. The innocent visitor would scarcely alight 

 before the jealous cock was upon him; but while he 

 was thrusting the intruder out at one side, a second 

 would be coming in on the other. He managed, 

 however, to protect his cherries very well, but had 

 so little time to eat the fruit himself that we got 

 fully our share. 



I have frequently seen the robin courting, and 

 have always been astonished and amused at the 

 utter coldness and indifi'erence of the female. The 

 females of every species of birds, however, I believe, 

 have this in common, — they are absolutely free 

 from coquetry, or any airs and wiles whatever. In 



