Robin! You and I were lovers when yet my years were few. We roamed the fields and hills together. We explored the brook that ran up into the great dark woods and away over the edge of the world. We knew the old squirrel who lived in the maple tree. We heard the first frog peep. We knew the minnows that lay under the mossy log. We knew how the cowslips bloomed in the lushy swale. We heard the first soft roll of thunder in the liquid April sky.
Robin! The fields are yonder! You are my better self. I care not for the birds of paradise; for whether here or there, I shall listen for your carol in the apple tree.
Our lesson on robin shall be a lesson out of doors. We shall leave the books behind. We shall see the bird. We shall watch him and make up our minds what he is doing and why. We shall know robin better; and robin lives in the fields.
Perhaps you think you know robin. Suppose that one of your friends never saw a robin; do you think you could close your eyes and describe him so that your friend would know how the bird looks?
Then tell me where robin builds its nest, and of what materials; and how many eggs are laid and their color; and how long the mother bird sits; and how long the fledglings remain in the nest. You can readily find a family of robins in some near-by tree, or perhaps even on the porch; and you can learn all these things without ever disturbing the birds.
I want you to watch a bird build its nest. You may think that you know how robin builds, but can you really tell me just how the bird carries the mud, and where it finds the other materials, and how long the building operation continues? Do both birds take part in the building?
Then I want to know whether you can tell the difference between father robin and mother robin. Did you ever notice whether robins that come first in the spring have brighter breasts than those that come later? And can you explain?