759 
Among the Birds of the Yosemite. 
I suppose), “ Why do the woodpeckers 
take the trouble to put acorns into the 
hark of the trees ? ” “ For the same 
reason,” I replied, “ that bees store 
honey and squirrels nuts.” “ But they 
tell me, Mr. Muir, that woodpeckers 
don’t eat acorns.” “Yes, they do,” I 
said, “ I have seen them eating them. 
During snowstorms they seem to eat lit¬ 
tle besides acorns. I have repeatedly 
interrupted them at their meals, and seen 
the perfectly sound, half-eaten acorns. 
They eat them in the shell as some peo¬ 
ple eat eggs.” “ But what about the 
worms ? ” “I suppose,” I said, “ that 
when they come to a wormy one they 
eat both worm and acorn. Anyhow, 
they eat the sound ones when they can’t 
find anything they like better, and from 
the time they store them until they are 
used they guard them, and woe to the 
squirrel or jay caught stealing.” In¬ 
dians, in times of scarcity, frequently 
resort to these stores and chop them out 
with hatchets ; a bushel or more may be 
gathered from a single cedar or pine. 
The common robin, with all his famil¬ 
iar notes and gestures, is found nearly 
everywhere throughout the park, — in 
shady dells beneath dogwoods and ma¬ 
ples, along the flowery banks of the 
streams, tripping daintily about the mar¬ 
gins of meadows in the fir and pine woods, 
and far beyond on the shores of glacier 
lakes and the slopes of the peaks. How 
admirable the constitution and temper 
of this cheery, graceful bird, keeping glad 
health over so vast and varied a range. 
In all America he is at home, flying 
from plains to mountains up and down, 
north and south, away and back, with the 
seasons and supply of food. Oftentimes, 
in the High Sierra, as you wander through 
the solemn woods, awe-stricken and si¬ 
lent, you will hear the reassuring voice of 
this fellow wanderer ringing out sweet 
and clear as if saying, “ Fear not, fear 
not. Only love is here.” In the sever¬ 
est solitudes he seems as happy as in gar¬ 
dens and apple orchards. 
The robins enter the park as soon as the 
snow melts, and go on up the mountains, 
gradually higher, with the opening flow¬ 
ers, until the topmost glacier meadows 
are reached in June and July. After the 
short summer is done, they descend like 
most other summer visitors in concord 
with the weather, keeping out of the first 
heavy snows as much as possible, while 
lingering among the frost-nipped wild 
cherries on the slopes just below the 
glacier meadows. Thence they go to the 
lower slopes of the forest region, com¬ 
pelled to make haste at times by heavy 
all-day storms, picking up seeds or be¬ 
numbed insects by the way, and at last 
all, save a few that winter in Yose¬ 
mite valleys, arrive in the vineyards 
and orchards and stubble-fields of the 
lowlands in November, picking up fallen 
fruit and grain, and awakening old-time 
memories among the white-headed pio¬ 
neers, who cannot fail to recognize the 
influence of so homelike a bird. They 
are then in docks of hundreds, and make 
their way into the gardens of towns as 
well as into the parks and fields and or¬ 
chards about the bay of San Francisco, 
where many of the wanderers are shot 
for sport and the morsel of meat on 
their breasts. Man then seems a beast 
of prey. Not even genuine piety can 
make the robin-killer quite respectable. 
Saturday is the great slaughter day in 
the bay region. Then the city pot-hunt¬ 
ers, with a ragtag of boys, go forth to 
kill, kept in countenance by a sprinkling 
of regular sportsmen arrayed in self- 
conscious majesty and leggins, leading 
dogs and carrying hammerless, breech- 
loading guns of famous makers. Over 
the fine landscapes the killing goes for¬ 
ward with shameful enthusiasm. After 
escaping countless dangers, thousands 
fall, big bagfuls are gathered, many are 
left wounded to die slowly, no Red Cross 
Society to help them. Next day, Sun¬ 
day, the blood and leggins vanish from 
the most devout of the bird butchers, 
who go to church, carrying gold-headed 
