The Western Robin 
Taken in Fresno County Photo by the Author 
A BREEDING HAUNT IN THE SIERRAS 
to my good neighbor X—, I suppose I'd have to shoot you.” Or, “Well, 
young man, wha’ d’yuh think y’re doin' there? ‘Robins’ aiggs,’ hey? 
Well, don’t you know better’n to scare the poor birdies like that? Come 
down out o’ there this minute. The idea!” (Chorus of inner protests 
at the rank injustice of this method of dealing with childish curiosity, 
and much mental panorama of oval objects done in “Robin’s egg blue”— 
say about a thousand of them. Ha, this ineluctable oological propensity 
—common to men and monkeys! It is to laugh!) 
“Everybody knows Robin. He is part and parcel of springtime, 
chief herald, chief poet, and lord high reveler of that joyful season. It is 
a merry day when the first flock of Robins turns itself loose on the home 
landscape. There is great bustle and stir of activity. Some scurry about 
to note the changes wrought by winter, some wrestle with the early and 
unsophisticated worm, while others voice their gladness from the fence- 
post, the gable, the tree-top, anywhere. Everywhere are heard inter¬ 
jections of delight, squeechings and pipings of ardent souls, and no end 
of congratulations over the home-coming. 
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