A SUMMER RESIDENT 
63 
with us all winter* If visited in the suburban woods 
they do not show the eager activity of the Snowbirds, 
Chickadees, and Juncoes, who wrestle incessantly 
with the problem of a food supply, but perch quietly 
and rather cheerlessly in the close shades of the 
Cedars, as if awaiting the return of a more kindly 
season. A wayfarer, looking anxiously for the 
swelling of winter buds on the Birches, sees one fly 
into a closer shade and announces the first Robin of 
the season. The discovery is none the less welcome 
that the bird has been within call throughout the year. 
Farther south these stragglers become more frequent, 
but the great flocks congregate about the Gulf of 
Mexico. 
After the days and evenings of song that celebrate 
the return to their northern home they settle down 
assiduously to the serious purposes of life. There 
are no more devoted parents than the Robins. Those 
gaping beaks rising above the mud-thatched nest, 
showing the yellow tints of immaturity, seem to have 
unlimited capacity. Every lawn and open space is 
searched continuously for food. Keen senses guide 
them to where the venturesome worms approach the 
surface. There is something comical in the attitude 
of an anxious mother Robin with her head turned 
to one side, so as to bring an eye to bear directly on 
the ground. A rigid stare — a quick, darting blow — 
and the attenuated worm is pulled out of its burrow. 
