Yet she’s everything to Robin, Silent partner though she be; Source and theme and inspiration Of each madrigal and glee. For as she, with mute devotion, Shapes and curves the plastic nest, Fashioning a tiny cradle With the pressure of her breast, So the love in that soft bosom Moulds his being as ’twere clay, Prints upon his breast the music Of his most impassioned lay. And when next you praise the Robin, Flinging wide with tuneful gate To his eager brood of love-notes, Don’t forget the Robin’s mate. —Eliza Gilbert Ives. ----- [4] See _Climatic Variations in Colour and Size of Song Sparrow_, F. M. Chapman. XXIII MARCH _Red-wings and Pussy-willows_ MARCH March! March! March! They are coming In troops to the tune of the wind; Red-headed Woodpeckers drumming, Gold-crested Thrushes behind. Sparrows in brown jackets hopping Past every gateway and door. Finches with crimson caps stopping Just where they stopped years before. —Lucy Larcom. “How do the birds know when spring has come? How can they tell the difference between a warm day in December and a warm day in March when the ground is still snow covered? We ourselves might be puzzled to tell the difference if we had not kept record of the days and weeks by the almanac. “But the birds know. The Red-wings, Grackles, and Cowbirds will not return for the warmest December sun, but let the sun of early March but blink, and they are up and away, oftentimes stealing a march on shy Pussy-willow herself. “Unless the season is very stormy, as we have seen for ourselves this year, a few Robins, Bluebirds, and Blackbirds are added to the winter residents in February. These, however, belong to a sort of roving advance-guard; the real procession comes in March, the exact time depending upon the weather, for the insect-eating birds cannot stay if their larder of field and air is ice locked. “So we may look for larger flocks of the birds that drifted along in February, and in addition to these the Woodcock, the Great Fox Sparrow as big as the Hermit Thrush, Phœbe, Kingfisher, Mourning Dove, and Field Sparrow of the flesh-pink bill, rusty head and back, and buff breast, who sings his little strain, ‘cherwee-cher-wee-cherwee-iddle-iddle-iddle ee,’ as the sun goes down.