No. 99.
WESTERN ROBIN.
A. O. U. No. 761a. Planesticus migratorius propinquus (Ridgw.).
Description.—Similar to P. migratorius, but white on inner webs of outer rectrices much reduced or wanting; gray of upperparts paler and more olivaceous, more sharply contrasting with black of head; cinnamon-rufous of underparts averaging paler; wing, tail, and tarsus slightly longer. Length of males about 10.25 (260.3); wing 5.52 (140); tail 4.13 (105); bill .80 (20.3); tarsus 1.34 (34.1). Females slightly smaller.
Recognition Marks.—“Robin” size; cinnamon-rufous below—everyone knows the Robin—without white on “corners” of tail as distinguished from preceding.
Nesting.—Nest: a thick-walled but shapely bowl of mud (rarely felted vegetable fibers instead) set about with twigs, leaves, string and trash, and lined with fine grass-stems; placed anywhere in trees or variously, but usually at moderate heights. Eggs: 3 or 4, rarely 5; greenish blue, unmarked. Av. size 1.15 × .79 (29.2 × 20.1). Season: April 15-July 10; two broods.
General Range.—Western North America from the Rocky Mountains to the Pacific, north to limit of trees in coast forest district in Alaska; south thru highlands of Mexico and occasionally Guatemala; breeding nearly thruout its range.
Range in Washington.—Common summer resident and migrant thruout the State, more common in settled portions; rare in mountains save in vicinity of settlements; irregularly resident in winter, sometimes abundantly on Puget Sound.
Migrations.—Spring: West-side, last week in February; East-side, first or second week in March. Fall: October.
Authorities.—[Lewis and Clark, Hist. Ex. 1814 Ed. Biddle: Coues, Vol. II. p. 185.] Turdus (planesticus) migratorius, Linn., Baird, Rep. Pac. R. R. Surv. IX. pt. II. 1858, p. 219. (T.) C&S. L¹. Rh. D¹. Sr. Kb. Ra. D². Ss¹. Ss². Kk. J. B. E.
Specimens.—U. of W. P¹. Prov. BN. B. E.
There are, it may be, a thousand fruits, sweet, acid or spicy, which delight the palate of man, yet if we were forced to choose among them, not many of us would fail to reserve the apple. In like manner, we could perhaps least afford to spare our tried and trusted, old, familiar friend, the Robin. He is a staple.
Everybody knows Robin. He is part and parcel of springtime, chief herald, chief poet, and lord high reveller of that joyful season. It is a merry day when the first flock of Robins turns itself loose on the home landscape. There is great bustle and stir of activity. Some scurry about to note the changes wrought by winter, some wrestle with the early and unsophisticated worm, while others voice their gladness from the fence-post, the gable, the tree-top, anywhere. Everywhere are heard interjections of delight, squeechings and pipings of ardent souls, and no end of congratulations over the home-coming.
Taken in Oregon. Photo by W. L. Finley.
BACK FROM MARKET.
Robin has cast in his lot with ours, for better or for worse. Our lawns are his lawns, our shade-trees were set on purpose to hold his homely mud-cup, and he has undertaken with hearty good will the musical instruction of our children. He serves without pay—Oh, a cherry now and then, but what of that? The fruit-grower never had a more useful hired man; and it is written: “Thou shalt not muzzle the ox that treadeth out the corn.” I wonder if we realize how much of life’s good cheer and fond enspiriting we owe to this familiar bird.
Near the close of a burning day in the desert, we drew near to a little ranch where a bravery of green, supported by a windmill and a tiny trickle of water, defied the engulfing waste of sand and sage. It seemed to me that I had never seen anything more pathetic than the stubborn faith of the man who had dreamed of rearing a home amidst such desolation. How could a man be happy here? and how dare he bring a wife and tender children to share such a forlorn hope? Why, the wilderness around had raised nothing but sage-brush and jack-rabbits for countless millenniums; but here in this tiny oasis were locust trees and poplars. And here, as the sun sank low in the West, a Robin burst into song. The nearest human neighbor was miles away, and the nearest timber further. Yet here was this home-loving Robin, this reincarnation of childhood’s friend, pouring out in the familiar cadence of old his thanksgiving for shelter and food, his praise for joy of life and gladness to the Almighty, who is Father of all. And then I understood.
Taken in Seattle. Photo by the Author.
SUNSET AT THE ROBIN ROOST.