The robins know very well that children grow weary of long lectures; so they give them here a little and there a little instruction, as occasion demands.

They are decided in their family government, but not severe.  Their children are taught to obey promptly and cheerfully, but they have no slavish fear of their parents.  Their presence is not regarded as a restraint; for, at all suitable times, they have freely permitted their little ones to laugh and frolic to their hearts’ content.  They willingly listen to all the plans of the birdlings, and lend an attentive ear to the story of their joys and their sorrows.  Their sympathy is never withheld; their griefs are never considered as of no consequence because they are brief and soon forgotten.

The parent birds do not leave their young alone but a little while at a time.  They often fly home to see them, and sometimes perch on the walnut-tree, and talk with them.  Their musical chirpings are pleasant to hear.  We don’t understand the bird-language; but we judge, by the soft tones, that it is something kind and agreeable they are saying.  Perhaps they are talking about their plans for the future, when they all know how to use their wings, and can fly about together.

Very often, during the day, the robins bring worms to fill the gaping mouths.  It is surprising how much they eat.  No wonder they have grown plump and large, for they eat and sleep as much as they please.  We expect soon to see them flying about from tree to tree, and hopping along the ground.  We hope that great cat, which steps about so softly, will never find them.  She is welcome to all the rats and mice she can put her paws on, but we never like to see her climb a tree, for we fear she will destroy some of our cheerful friends, who build near the house in full confidence that they shall not be disturbed.

The young robins are not lonely in their rural home.  The plainly-dressed sparrows and the brilliant yellow-birds look in upon them, and, now and then, their cousin, the oriole, comes, clad in the richest golden plumage, and sings them a song.  If he had dipped his feathers in the gorgeous sunset he could not be more beautiful.  The delicate little humming-birds sip nectar from the deep horns of the honeysuckle; and the red-winged starling, in his glossy black coat, and his dashing scarlet epaulette, occasionally comes from his home in the meadow, to make them a call.  He does not like Honeysuckleville quite as well as his dwelling in the grass, just above the water.  If he was not so confirmed in his habits, I think he would be strongly tempted to become a neighbour of the robins.  A few weeks ago, when his favourite resort was five or six feet under water, he and his friends seemed to be in great uncertainty what course to pursue.  They had several mass meetings on the quince-bushes, in full sight of Honeysuckleville, and a great many speeches were made.  It sounded to me like incessant chattering, and as if all were talking at the same time.  I could not understand a word they said, and I cannot tell you the result of their deliberations.  Whatever it may have been, when the water subsided, they returned to their old haunts by the river-side.