He is one of our most common and
widely distributed birds. Approach any forest at any hour of the day,
in any kind of weather, from May to August, in any of the Middle or
Eastern districts, and the chances are that the first note you hear
will be his. Rain or shine, before noon or after, in the deep forest
or in the village grove,--when it is too hot for the thrushes or too
cold and windy for the warblers,--it is never out of time or place
for this little minstrel to indulge his cheerful strain. In the deep
wilds of the Adirondacks, where few birds are seen and fewer heard,
his note was almost constantly in my ear. Always busy, making it a
point never to suspend for one moment his occupation to indulge his
musical taste, his lay is that of industry and contentment. There is
nothing plaintive or especially musical in his performance, but the
sentiment expressed is eminently that of cheerfulness. Indeed, the
songs of most birds have some human significance, which, I think, is
the source of the delight we take in them. The song of the bobolink to
me expresses hilarity; the song sparrow's, faith; the bluebird's,
love; the catbird's, pride; the white-eyed flycatcher's,
self-consciousness; that of the hermit thrush spiritual serenity:
while there is something military in the call of the robin.
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