"Well, sir, I never seed 'em," said Monnick, "but that's what they say-- the robin and the wren be God's cock and hen." "Stuff! Robins pair with robins. Should I, being a sparrow, pair with a swallow that flies high above me--three mullets on a field azure-- flying across the blue sky." "Well, no, sir," said Monnick thoughtfully; "I suppose not." "It would be humbug, John Monnick, humbug; and the robin is a humbug, John. As to his behaviour to his kind, it seems grievous to have to lift the veil that covers so much evil; but it must be done. What do you say to your belauded robin being one of the most sanguinary little monsters under the sun? Not merely is he a murderer of his kind, but he will commit parricide, matricide, or fratricide without the smallest provocation. Put half-a-dozen robins in an aviary, and go the next morning to see the result. I don't say that, as in the case of the celebrated Kilkenny cats, there will be nothing left but one tail; but I guarantee that five of the robins will be dead, and the survivor in anything but the best of plumage, for a gamecock is not more pugnacious than our little friend." "That be true enough, sir," said John, rubbing his back softly, "I've seen 'em. But you must ha' taken a mort o' notice of 'em, sir. I didn't know you ever see such things." "You thought I dealt only in physic and lotions, John, eh? But I have noticed robins and a few other things. But about Cock Robin. It might be thought that this fighting propensity would only exist at pairing time, and that it was a question of fighting for the smiles of some fair Robinetta; but nothing of the kind: a robin will not submit to the presence of another in or on its beat, and will slay the intruder without mercy, or be slain in the attempt. It might almost be thought that the ruddy stain upon its breast-feathers was the proof-mark of some late victory, where the feathers had been imbrued in the victim's blood; but I will not venture upon the imagery lest it should jar. It is no uncommon thing to see a couple of robins in a walk, flitting round each other with wings drooping and tails erect: they will bend and bow, and utter short, defiant notes, retreat, as if to take up more strategic positions, and, after an inordinate amount of fencing, dash in and fight till there seems to be a sort of feathery firework going off amongst the bushes; and so intent are they on their battle, so careless of man's approach, that they may at times be picked up panting, exhausted, bleeding, and dying, holding tightly on to one another by their slender bills." "Yes, sir, and I've picked 'em up dead more'n once."