The Western Robin 
nesting in Golden Gate Park bear witness—window sills and beams of 
porches, barns and outbuildings are favorite places; and in default of 
these, brush-piles or log-heaps will do. 
The mud used in construction is, of course, carried in the beak. 
Arrived at the nest with a beakful of mud, the mother bird drops her load, 
or plasters it loosely on the inside of the cup. Then she hops into the nest, 
settles as low as possible, and begins to kick or trample vigorously with 
her feet. From time to time she tests the smoothness or roundness of 
the job by settling to it with her breast, but the shaping is altogether 
accomplished by the peculiar tedder action of her feet. 
Western Robins do not usually nest twice, although they may ven¬ 
ture to do so where their relations to man are thoroughly dependable. 
Three eggs is the rule for the Western Robin; four is unusual, save in 
the Humboldt region, and there is only one published record of five in 
California. In this respect, therefore, the Western Robin falls decidedly 
behind her eastern cousin. 
Young Robins are darling creatures; that is conceded by everyone,— 
even by the cat. And hungry! Oh, so hungry! It is estimated that if 
the appetite of a man was proportioned to that of a young Robin, he 
would consume daily the equivalent of a sausage four inches in diameter 
and twelve feet long! 
The Robin’s appetite is, unfortunately, more than a matter of pass¬ 
ing interest to his friends. So long as it can be directed towards insects, 
or towards the wild fruits which form so large a portion of its normal bill- 
of-fare, we do not complain. The madrona tree ( Arbutus menziesii) often 
fruits in such abundance that hordes of Robins can thrive upon it through¬ 
out the winter. Christmas berries ( Heteromeles arbntifolia) are another 
staple of winter fare, while haws, service berries, cascara berries, and all 
available representatives of the genera Rhus, Prunus, Cornus, Pyrus, 
Celtis, Juniperus, and a dozen others, furnish their quota. But when all 
these sources of supply fail, the Robins, to the number sometimes of tens 
of thousands, invade the orchards of ripening olives, and there they make 
sad havoc. A Robin can take care of five or six ripe olives at a time, 
and a regiment of them can strip an orchard faster than a crew of men, 
although the birds really prefer to pick up the fallen fruit off the ground. 
In such circumstances, there really seems nothing for it but to shoot the 
birds—under governmental permission. Olives are olives, and we can¬ 
not alter their midwinter season of maturity to suit Sir Robin’s con¬ 
venience. With other winter fruits it is a little different. A neighbor 
of mine, who raises February raspberries at fifty cents a thimbleful, com¬ 
plains bitterly of their attractiveness to the Robins; but I tell him that 
if he insists on raising such unseasonable luxuries, he can afford chicken 
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