“The Robin, like the Bluebird, is found in almost all parts of North America.  In the far Southern States, like Florida, where they take refuge from winter storms, Robins begin to sing in chorus while the weather in the Middle and Northern States is still so cold that it would freeze the music before any one could hear it, even if the birds had courage to sing.  But delightful as the climate is there, where it also provides a plentiful table of berries, these Robins break away from the land of plenty and begin their northern journey before the first shad dares venture up the rivers.

“On and on they go, this great army of Robins, flying in flocks of ten and hundreds.  Here and there they meet with smaller flocks, which have been able to spend the winter in roving about not far from their nesting places, and then there is a great deal of talking; for the Robin has a great many ways of making remarks.  Some of his numerous notes sound as if he were asking a long list of questions; others express discontent; then again he fumes and sputters with anger.  It is easy to tell the plump, well-fed birds, just home from the South, from those who have been obliged to live on half rations during the northern winter.

“Before this flying army quite leaves the Southern States some of them halt for nest-building, and then the Robin sings the best of all his songs,—­his happy, cheery melody,—­all about the earth, the sky, the sun, the tree he and his mate have chosen to build in,—­a song of the little brook where he means to get the water to wet the clay to plaster his nest,—­a ballad of the blue eggs it will hold, and the greedy little Robins, all eyes and mouth, that will come out of them.  But as he sings something frightens him; then he cries, ‘quick! quick! quick!’ and hurries away in a rather clumsy fashion.  If any one could understand the meaning of all that the Robin says and put it into our words, we should be able to make a very good dictionary of the language of Birdland.”

“I’ve noticed how different his songs are,” said Rap eagerly, “and how some of his ways are like the Bluebird’s, too.  We had a Robin’s nest last season in the grape vine over the back door, and I used to watch them all the time—­” and then Rap hesitated in great confusion, for fear that he had been impolite in stopping the Doctor.

“Tell us about your Robins, my boy; we shall like to hear the story.  Don’t look so troubled, but say exactly what you saw them do.”

Rap wriggled about a little, then settled himself comfortably with his chin resting on the top of his crutch, and began:  “It was the year that my leg was hurt.  The miller was chopping a tree and it fell the wrong way on me and squeezed my leg so that it couldn’t be mended; so I was around home all the time.  It was a terribly cold day when the Robins came back, along in the first part of March.  If it hadn’t been for the Robins, anybody would have thought it was January.  But