us with his pleasant songs. The nightingale, the blackcap, and many other warblers, migrate to warmer climates before the winter sets in, but the robin remains as our winter friend. He too is in some degree a migratory bird, but he is not a distant voyager; and the change of residence he makes at this season, only brings him into closer contact with man. In summer, he makes his home in the woods and forests: there he sings and builds, and passes the fine season with his mate, busily assisting her in the care of her feathered family. When winter approaches he quits the woods, which can no longer supply him with food, and establishes himself in our shrubberies and gardens, feeding on the late autumnal berries, and such insects as he can still find. As the cold becomes more severe, and he finds it more and more difficult to procure food, he approaches nearer to our abodes. Rendered tame by his necessities, he comes fearlessly to our very thresholds, to pick up the crumbs thrown out to feed him; and even taps at the window with his bill, to petition for a fresh supply. Often he advances still further, enters our dwellings, and takes shelter beneath the friendly roof. Here he will remain, a contented guest; until the return of spring: then he flutters his wings, and is in haste to be gone, to

Some

seek his summer pleasures in the woods. times he has been known in the winter to glide in at the partially-opened window of the sick chamber, and make his familiar abode near the resting-place of the invalid. One such instance we well remember, which occurred in the year 1826, to a gentleman in the principality of Wales, who was at that time confined to his chamber by a severe illness. It was at the commencement of winter, and a robin had begun to frequent the garden and shrubbery, and nestle near the dwelling-house. Every morning, as soon as the door was opened, he entered the house, and flew up stairs towards the chamber of the invalid, gaining admittance at the first opportunity. Once within the apartment, he established himself on the top of a wardrobe, concealing his little person behind the moulding. Here he remained until all stir and movement in the room had ceased, and the sick man was left alone, with his breakfast placed before him on a bed-table. Then was the time for robin to show himself; and quitting his hiding-place, he came hovering at the bed-side, glancing his bright eye in at the opening of the curtains, as if to ascertain that his friend was alone. Having satisfied himself, apparently, by this scrutiny, he flew within the curtains, alighted on the bed

table, and commenced a brisk attack on the bread and butter, or toast, bringing to the meal an excellent appetite, which the invalid might well envy him. Nothing could exceed the perfect ease and unfettered enjoyment of the little bird. He seemed to feel himself on the footing of complete intimacy and companionship with his entertainer. He ate his fill, plumed his wing, and sung his pleasant song, evidently fearing no evil while no other person was in the room; but the moment a step was heard, he flew away to his hiding-place and remained unseen, until the dinner-hour found the invalid once more alone. Then he came forth again, making his approaches in the same interesting manner as at breakfast. It happened that a part of the sick man's daily food at that time was ground rice pudding. Of this the bird was particularly fond, and never failed to have a portion allotted to him. But he did not confine himself to the pudding. He would perch on a slice of bread, and feed heartily on it, digging a large hole in it with his bill. Then he would hop on to the edge of a water-glass, and deliberately sip the clear liquid, thus pledging his host with all the ease of a bidden guest. His meal ended, he would fly to the back of a chair near the fire: there he would remain, enjoying the warmth, dressing his feathers, and

warbling his "wood notes wild," as gaily as if he sat in summer bowers, till the approach of another person drove him back to his retreat. It was expected, that when the weather became colder, he would establish himself there for the winter. Indeed, he had already repeatedly passed the night in the apartment, taking up his lodging on the top of the wardrobe. For the present, however, he was usually only a day visitor. As night approached, he generally found opportunity to flit away, and seek his old roosting place in barn or shed. The morning saw him again, an attendant on the sick couch. Again he shared the breakfast and the dinner, and repaid his entertainer by his cheering strains. He did not always remain stationary in the room, but occasionally made an excursion into the nursery. There he was at all times a welcome guest, and seemed to be as much at ease as in the invalid's chamber; feeding fearlessly on the crumbs that fell from the children's table. This pleasant intercourse with the little bird had been going on for some time, when all at once poor robin's visits ceased, and it is feared that in one of his excursions to the nursery, he fell a prey to the pet cat, which was also accustomed to share the children's bounty.

There is something particularly calculated to awaken kindly feelings for the little bird, in the

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perfect confidence he reposes in us; so that he is safe, even when within the reach of man. There is too an additional security for the robin, arising out of the various proverbs and legends, which in some sort cast a charm around him, and seem, as by a powerful spell, to protect him from injury. Perhaps no one thing has tended more to produce this effect, than the pathetic ballad of the "Babes in the Wood;" that touching story, which has called forth more tears of tender pity in childhood, than any other nursery tale in our language. Certain it is, that this little bird is held sacred by all. The school-boy who ventures to do him violence, must be a hardy fellow. Such a deed of unwonted cruelty would mark him with a brand of disgrace in the eyes of his companions. sociability with man has acquired for him, in many countries, some familiar name: with us, he is Robin Redbreast; in Sweden he is Tomi Liden; in Germany he is Thomas Gierdet; while the Norwegian peasant gives him the name, Peter Ronsmad. Except in the summer, when he shares his home in the wood with his mate and his young, he is always seen alone.

His

Robins are never met with in flocks under any circumstances. They are found all over Europe, from Spain and Italy, to Sweden. They make their nest generally near the ground, in the roots