THE ROBIN REDBREAST.

PROF. W. M. NEVIN.

I HAVE ofen wondered why it was that the name of the Robin Redbreast was never put into the Bible. Not that I am so foolish as to suppose that of all the good birds that ever lived in the world the names ought to be recorded in the Holy Book; but it seems strange to me that of one so distinguished for his excellent qualities as the robin is, no mention should ever have been made, either in the way of instituting a comparison or of setting forth an example, by any of the inspired writers. Its owner is as good a bird any day, I would think, as is the sparrow or the eagle and as affectionate as is the dove or the stork, and a good deal better behaved than is the peafowl or the raven. Not that I would wish to pluck one feather from the wings of those beautiful or exemplary birds. For their amiable characteristics some of them are deservedly celebrated. The dove is fond of his mate, and the eagle of his young, and the stork of the old folks at home. The peafowl and the raven too are very genteel in their plumage, and the sparrow is noted for his familiarity about our houses and in the churches; which predilection, however, is owing rather, I would think, to the comfortable quarters these places afford him for his nest than to any very humane or pious feelings on his part, for which he has had too often the credit. Still, allowing them all the good traits they are said to possess, I would maintain that the robin redbreast, in amiability and good breeding, falls not a whit behind the best of them, while in one particular he is vastly their superior. In his benevolence he is not restricted to his own family. His heart is more enlarged and philanthropical.

On birds, somehow I never cared much about throwing away my affections unrequited. Towards, or from my feathered beauties, I have always been drawn or repulsed somewhat after the same manner as was the old poet Wither towards, or from the fair of his own species:

"Shall I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care,
'Cause another's rosy are?

Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flow'ry meads in May;
If she be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be!

"Shall my foolish heart be pined,
'Cause I see a woman-kind?
Or a well-disposed nature
Joined with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder than

The turtle dove or pelican;

If she be not so to me,

What care I how kind she be !"

What care I for your blue-jays, your red-birds and your meadowlarks, who flaunt their handsome plumage in the spring-time, all out of sheer vanity or to catch the admiration of their lady-loves, while for myself, who may be gazing at them, they care no more than they do for an ox or a donkey! I am pleased, to be sure, with their colored feathers and their sprightly motions, as they flit about from bough to bough, just as I am with the varied tints of the blossoms, but I choose not to waste on them my affections. What care I even for your blue-birds, your orioles, or your yellowthroats which, in the summer time, pour forth such sweet gushes of music, knowing as I do that these are all intended for their mates, while for me, who may have come into their neighborhood, they feel no kind regards, but only a concern lest I should approach too near their nests. I am pleased, I admit, with their notes, just as I am likewise with the winds whispering through the willows, or the babblings of the brooks; and I admire, besides, their conjugal and parental affections, but I do not choose to bestow on them my heart. The robin redbreast, that gentle bird, I am disposed rather to love, whose guise is plain and simple, and whose manners are easy but unassuming. He wears no bright plumage, and, of course, wishes to make no display among the branches; but, in my opinion, that mellowed redness of his breast, which is brownish and blends so becomingly with the rest of his sober suit, surpasses the richest hues of other birds, inasmuch as it seems to have been brought about, not by any pride or paint on his part certainly, but all by the genial warmth of his heart suffusing itself flushingly through his feathers. As a husband and a parent he is kind and affectionate, but his good feelings are not confined to his own household. In the summer mornings how fond is he of secreting himself beneath the hedge or in the summit of the elm, and of pouring forth thence his unpretending notes, while with the pleasured surprise, with which he knows I am struck, as from his covert of leaves unseen he observes me walking by and looking all around in vain to discover where he is perched, I have no doubt he is perfectly delighted. Kind-hearted, social bird! He prefers being near the house, and on that account builds his nest on the plumb-tree in the garden or even in the honey-suckle by the Porch, where he gives us his cheerful company during the season, and when his young are fully fledged and able to fly, he does not, like other summer birds, wing with them his way to the South, but lingers still amid the old familiar scenes. Even in winter he leaves not always his beloved haunts, but keeps near the house, not obtruding himself, as sometimes does the sparrow, almost impudently, into places where he has no business, but modestly keeping aloof until advances have been made him, when forward he comes trip

pingly to receive the crumbs that may have been cast him by the children, better pleased, it would seem, with the kindness shown than with even the food bestowed, and while partaking of it he always lifts up his head in thankful acknowledgement.

The only possible reason I can conceive of why the name of the robin redbreast was never put into the Bible, must have been that he was not a resident of the Holy Land, and on that account unknown to the sacred writers. No sooner, however, has christianity extended towards the North, and with it, of course, civilization and letters, than the name of this sweet singer of colder climates becomes justly celebrated. In singing, to be sure, he surpasses not the nightingale, but with that bird and the merl and the mavis, his voice is mostly selected by the poets to make up a set or quarette. It is, however, especially for his piety and humanity, that he has always been deservingly beloved. Indeed in those romantic times of old when a black coat was not the clergyman's only cloth, when there were not only black friars but also white friars and gray friars, he seems to have taken holy orders. In that melancholy dirge, therefore, on the death of Philip Sparrow slain, by Tib the cat, composed by Master Skelton, poet laureate, while the other birds are invited to the funeral merely to chatter and mourn, he is called upon to officiate as priest.

"To weep with me, loke that ye come
All maner of byrds in your kynd,

See none be left behynd;

To morning loke that ye fawl
With dolorous songes funerall:
Some to sing, and some to say,
Some to weep, and some to praye,
Every bird in his lay.

The goldfinch, the wagtaile,
The jangling jay to rayle;
The flecked pye to chatter

Of this dolorous matter;

And robyn redbreste
He shal be the preest

The requiem masse to syng
Lofty warbeling."

The very sobriquet of Robin which he bears, is expressive of fondness and familiarity, and was applied by the English only to their best favorites. Thus they had Robin Hood, the most generous and romantic of outlaws, and Robin Goodfellow or Puck, that "merry wanderer of the night," with all his tricks and pranks, the most amusing and beloved of the fairies. To record all the praises that have been pronounced by poets on the redbreast would require many volumes. I will not essay it at present. It is not needful for me even to make selections. To that touching incident, however, told of him in the Children of the Wood, though familiar to all of us as household words, I cannot help calling attention, for like the words of Auld Lang Syne or the tune of Old Folks at Home,

it is one of those good things which, though in the months of all, never wear out and can bear being often repeated. I can quote only two stanzas.

"These pretty babes, with hand in hand,

Went wandering up and downe ;
But never more could see the man
Approaching from the town;

Their prettye lippes with blackberries,
Were all besmeared and dyed,

And when they saw the darksome night,
They sat them downe and cryed.

"Thus wandered these poor innocents,
Till death did ende their grief,
In one anothers armes they dyed,
As wanting due relief:

No burial this pretty pair

Of any man receives,

Till robin redbreast, piously

Did cover them with leaves."

What lad or man familiar from infancy with this legend would ever think of presenting his arrow or fowling-piece at the breast of a bird so pious and humane? If he did he might expect to meet with disasters hard and fast through all his life. It would be as bad as shooting an albatross. In our nursery reading all of us remember what commotion was aroused among not only the fowls of the air but even among the quadrupeds and fishes and insects, when one morning on the dewy grass a distinguished personage of the family of the Robins was found defunet and slain; and what must have been the universal surprise when all, at the solemn inquest held on the occasion, were waiting in breathless anxiety, expecting, no doubt, to hear the name of the hawk or the vulture or some ravenous bird announced as being that of the foul perpetrator instead thereof from a bough above to hear the slender voice of a tiny bird, heretofore without reproach and of good standing in society, to the awful question propounded untremblingly respond!

And what did you kill him for, you ingrate, ruthless wretch? What possible injury could a bird so harmless as was the robin have ever done thee or any of thy kin? Could it have been diseased ambition that prompted thee to the deed, as it did that wicked man of old who set fire to the lofty temple that his name might be known to posterity? Didst thou also hope, poor, insignificant thing, by so foul a crime as cutting off the best of birds, to gain for thyself a name and picture in the story-books of children? Or was it out of envy or jealousy because thou sawest the robin more admired and beloved than thyself? or, to put the softest construction on the

matter, was it from sheer thoughtlessness, wishing like a wanton cupid, to try the force of thy new bow-string on its arrow, and for this purpose, oh, couldst thou not have chosen some more befitting target than the tender breast of the unsuspecting robin? and wert thou not even thyself surprised and horror-stricken at the fatal result? What would that ancient robin redbreast, who performed so piously the last sad priestly offices for thy deceased forefather, Philip Sparrow, have thought of the ingratitude of thy family had he known that one of them in after days would become the ruthless murderer of his illustrious descendant, the great and good CockRobin! What was done with the demented criminal history informs us not, but if he escaped Lynch law, if he was not immediately pounced upon by the paw of the fox or seized by the talons of the screech-owl, I have no doubt but that he was arraigned and tried before the proper tribunal, and notwithstanding his interesting helplessness and harmlessness of appearance, condemned and executed. But in attributing all these honors to the American robin, some one may ask, are you not bestowing him praises not his due? Is he the same bird or does he possess even the same good qualities as does the European? We care not now to enter into an onithological disquisition. There may be shades of difference between them in feather and a little variation in tone; the one may be more nearly allied to the nightingale and the other to the thrush; still, in the fashions of their persons and in their charming characteristics of mind they are undoubtedly the same. Our own, we know was not, like the paroquettes and the canary birds, introduced from abroad. He belongs, like the Indian to the soil. This, however, we think, is nothing to his discredit. We love him all the better for his being American born.

OLD LETTERS.

WHO has ever casually opened a box or budget of old letters, addressed to one's self, and began to read, without being chained to the spot, perhaps for hours together. The fascinations of those early loved ones, so near and dear, again surround you, and the realities of the past seem more identified with your existence than those of the present. The counsels and chidings, and the affections and encouragements bestowed from parents and elderly friends are full of deep and tender feeling, scarcely realized when the recipient of all. And then the little items of news, and the urgent invitation to visit, and sometimes to be present in scenes of interest, remind you of youth, and love, and beauty, which have passed away. Then comes, too, the mention of the death of those whose memory had almost faded from you, one's own charmed circle being as yet unbroken. Sad disasters come back with appalling distinctness and