The Robin’s song in its common form is too well known to require particular description, and too truly music to lend itself well to syllabic imitation. It is a common thing, indeed, like the upturned mold and the air which fans it, but out of these come the varied greens which beautify the world; the homely piping of the Robin has given birth to many a heaven-directed aspiration, and purged many a soul of guilty intent. Robin conceives many passages which are too high for him, and these he hums inaudibly, or follows in silent thought, like a tenor with a cold. When the theme reaches his compass again, he resumes, not where he left off but at the end of the unheard passage. It must be confessed, however reluctantly, that the song of the Western Robin is a little more subdued in character than that of the Eastern. The bird is a little less devoted to his art, and the total volume of sound yielded by any one chorus has never equalled, in my experience, that of a similar effort in the East.
When the Robin is much given to half-whispered notes and strains unusually tender, one may suspect the near presence of his fiancée. If you are willing to waive the proprieties for a few moments you will hear low murmurs of affection and soft blandishments, which it would tax the art of a Crockett to reproduce. And again, nothing can exceed the sadness of a Robin’s lament over a lost mate. All the virtues of the deceased are set forth in a coronach of surpassing woe, and the widower declares himself forever comfortless. It is not well, of course, to inquire too particularly as to the duration of this bereaved state—we are all human.
In spite of his fondness for human society, there are two periods of retirement in Robin’s year. The first occurs in March and early April, and may be denominated the season of courtship. After the first ardent greeting of the home folks, Robins gather in loose companies and keep to the seclusion of the woods, following the sun from east to south and west, ransacking the roots of trees and the edges of standing water for food, and, above all, sketching in the matrimonial plans of the season. When Robins have become common about the streets and yards of village and town, partners have usually been selected, but there still remain for many of the cocks hard-contested battles before peaceful possession is assured. These are not sham fights either; a Robin will fight a hated rival, beak and claw, till he is either thoroly winded or killed outright.
In late July and August Robins again forsake their familiar haunts, and spend the moulting season in the woods, moving about like ghosts in great straggling, silent companies. When the moult is completed, as autumn advances, they return in merry bevies to claim their share of the ripening fruits—no longer begrudged now, for they prefer such harmless viands as mountain-ash berries, and the insipid clusters of the madrone tree.
Robins occasionally winter on the east side of the mountains; and they are hard put to it unless they find a sufficient supply of ungathered fruit, preferably apples, left out to freeze or rot as the season dictates. West of the mountains they winter irregularly but quite extensively. There is nothing in the climate to forbid their staying all the time but I am inclined to think that their abundance in winter depends upon the berry crop, and especially that of the Madrona (Arbutus menziesii). The fall of 1907 was notable in this regard. The trees were in splendid bearing, and a certain patch on the bluff south of Fauntleroy Park was a gorgeous blaze of red, to which Robins resorted in hundreds.
Under such circumstances the birds establish winter roosts in convenient thickets, and repair to them at nightfall in great numbers. One such roost has been maintained on the outskirts of Seattle, just east of Ravenna Park, and in the winter of 1907-08 I estimated its population at some four thousand. The winter, it will be remembered, was a mild one, and every one in Seattle remarked the abundance of Robins.
In nesting, the Robin displays little caution, its homely mud-walled cup not being withdrawn from most familiar observation. Indeed, as in the case of the accompanying illustration, the bird appears rather to court notoriety. The major crotches of orchard or shade trees are not shunned. From five to fifteen feet is the usual elevation, but nests are sometimes found at fifty feet; and again, tho rarely, on the ground. Window sills and beams of porches, barns, and outbuildings are favorite places, and, in default of these, brush-piles or log-heaps will do.
Taken in Michigan. From a Photograph Copyright, 1908, by L. G. Linkletter.
THE ROBIN’S NEST.
The mud used in construction is, of course, carried in the beak. Arrived at the nest with a beakful of mud, the mother bird drops her load, or plasters it loosely on the inside of the cup. Then she hops into the nest, settles as low as possible, and begins to kick or trample vigorously with her feet. From time to time she tests the smoothness or roundness of the job by settling to it with her breast, but the shaping is altogether accomplished by the peculiar tedder action of her feet.