Of all our British birds, none perhaps has gained so complete a hold upon our imaginations, and the more sympathetic side of our nature, than our red-breasted friend. He is a welcome guest in every home in the kingdom, and in turn acknowledges the compliment by trusting us as do few of our native birds. It is in winter perhaps that we know him best; however cold and stormy the weather, he always appears happy, cheerful, and sprightly, as he hops along the garden path or seeks his breakfast at the dining-room window, returning thanks by a brilliant but short outburst of song from some neighbouring bush or wall. He has only one fault, and that is extreme pugnacity—other birds (not excluding that great bully the Sparrow) live in awe of him and keep a respectful distance, but it is a different matter with those of his own kind who are always “spoiling for a fight.” As soon as one has found a good point of vantage, or, if he be not too hungry, some dainty morsel, he will call out with a peculiar shrill single syllabled “tzsee,” as much as to say, “I have found something good and dare you to take it.” This challenge is almost sure to be taken up and swiftly repeated, not once but many times. The challenged one will slowly approach, there will be a short sharp fight, not much damage apparently being done to either combatant, and away will go the vanquished, while the victor, having eaten the “bone of dissension,” fluffs out his feathers, reels off a few bars of his song, and then flies off to repeat the performance elsewhere. So the winter passes, till gradually, as spring comes round, and with it other birds, we are apt to forget our little winter friend, his memory being only kept alive by occasional glimpses of a red breast in the thicket or on the ivy covering the wall. The Robin who cheered us in the cold winter days, though we are perhaps unaware of the fact, has _really_ gone, being engaged in bringing up his brood in some other part of the country, and his place has been taken by another from the south. There was probably a short interregnum, but we did not notice it, imagining probably that more abundant food had caused him to refuse the modest pittance of bread-crumbs that we were accustomed to put out daily for his especial benefit. The new-comer is certainly rather a shyer bird, at least we see less of him, but he is too busy to hang round the house; when he first comes he has to make sure of his footing, any rivals within call have to be disposed of, not in the half-hearted happy-go-lucky way that was good enough during the winter, but effectually disposed of once and for all. His next care is the choosing of a comfortable site for his nest; this is generally in some hole in a bank or wall, at no great height from the ground, and concealed with considerable care. The nest itself is chiefly composed of moss, with a lining of horsehair carefully felted together. The Robin is an early