Robin 
RcUDreast. 
THE BIRD WORLD. 
( 2 3 3 ) 
Robin Redbreast. 
An easy first favourite among British 
birds is Robin Redbreast. His beauty 
has, no doubt, something to do with his 
popularity, although the Chaffinch, the 
Bullfinch, and the Goldfinch all run 
him pretty hard as far as personal 
appearance is concerned. I fancy his 
individuality is a stronger point in his 
favour—a careless observer may con¬ 
found the three finches with each other, 
but there is no mistaking the Robin— 
the round body, the sharp beak, crim¬ 
son waistcoat, and audacious air belong 
to him, and to him alone. His audacity, 
too, which would be disgusting, not to 
say alarming, in a Turkey or even a 
Hen, is one of Robin’s charms. No one 
could object to liberties used by Ariel. 
Superstition early cast her aegis over the 
Redbreast. 
In England he who shoots a Robin 
must never expect to shoot straight more, 
while in Scotland everything belonging 
to the crimson-breasted bird is protected 
by the vague but terrible threat, “You 
will never thrive again.” 
Superstition and Poetry. 
Where superstition is, poetry is not 
far off. Few poets have left the Robin, 
unsung, and most of us have had our 
first impressions of death and burial 
softened by the idea of “ Robin Red¬ 
breast tenderly ” covering the babes in 
the wood with leaves. The artist has 
not been slow to follow the lead of the 
poet and the soothsayer. The Robin’s 
breast gives the desired “ bit of colour ” 
to many a winter landscape, and, thanks 
to the now disappearing Christmas card, 
the Robin has become quite as much a 
part of our Christmas idea as the scarlet 
holly-berries with which his portrait was 
so often surrounded. 
Yet in the face of all these honours, 
and in spite of the fact that my youth 
enjoyed much happy and familiar inter¬ 
course with members of his house, I 
cannot say that I consider the Robin an 
amiable character. Against his time¬ 
serving disposition I say nothing, his 
free-and-easy, hail-fellow-well-met man¬ 
ners when cold and hunger press, his 
haughty stand-aloof-never-saw-you-before 
airs in summer, these are traits much 
too human to be criticised. Nor com¬ 
plain I aught of his voracity. The 
Robin—so says the man who reduces 
everything to figures—has a daily capa¬ 
city for worms the same in proportion to 
its size as though a man were to eat 
67 ft. of 6-in. diameter sausage daily. 
If he were not blessed with such an appe¬ 
tite we should not have so much of his 
delightful company while digging our 
garden. So more strength to Robin’s 
digestion, say I. No, my quarrel with 
Robin is on account of his dog-in-the- 
manger temper. Stuff his red waistcoat 
to the throat with tit-bits, spread your 
bird-table ever so bountifully, yet Robin 
will not suffer another bird to have a 
beakful if he can help it. 
Like Red Rag to a Bull. 
Another Robin is to him as a red rag 
to a bull. In the beginning of the 
winter the young Robins kill all the old 
ones—so my gardener says; but I ven¬ 
ture to doubt if victory is always with 
the young. I have known the same 
Robin hold a garden for years against 
all intruders. Of the fact that they will 
fight to the death I had sad proof only 
five or six weeks ago. My garden 
boasted two Robins, equally handsome, 
equally warlike, and apparently equally 
strong. They were for ever at it, shout¬ 
ing defiance from opposing treetops, 
hunting each other like furies, and often 
falling on the ground before me locked 
in hostile embrace—-a fluttering little 
bundle of feather and screech. One 
day I saw them thus locked, but 
strangely still, and, hurrying to the 
spot, found one Robin dead, slain by 
a hundred beak wounds on the head. 
His rival, wounded to the death, flut¬ 
tered feebly aside as I came near, re¬ 
garding the dead with triumph in his 
fast-glazing eye. He had killed his 
enemy! What more could bird (or 
man) ask of Fate? 
