In the lingering evening the clear, mellow song of the 
Robin is a refreshing reminder of early spring. For 
many weeks it has been missed from the meagre 
strains of the small band of wandering minstrels that 
invade the city. The Robin has not been silent. His 
sharp note of interrogation has been incessant. His 
loud alarm has been frequently sounded to announce 
a hasty journey under the leafy branches. He has 
called in many tones, announcing himself to his 
friends. But the melodious, romantic evening song 
has been hushed — silenced by the pressing cares and 
duties of domestic life. Now that the burdensome 
and importunate progeny have gone their ways with 
the hereditary ingratitude of nature, there is an 
interval of leisure and the song of evening is renewed. 
Robins are so familiar that imagination has no scope 
for endowing them with the wily, intricate virtues 
and vices of humanity. They are classed among 
the earliest of spring visitors, because a few remain 
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