Marjorie C. Lundstrom and Kim Cronin share stories

ROBBIE




By Marjorie C. Lundstrom, Written in 1968




The wind was blowing white puffs of clouds across the sky, one afternoon early in August, when we found our baby.




My husband said, " We'd better kill him; he'll never live."




I pleaded, " Oh no! Let's try to raise him."

He smiled and reluctantly replied, " Alright; but we're really letting ourselves in for something !"




There in the grass, a few inches off the terrace, lay small, round ball of feathers. Two brilliantly black eyes watched; but there wasn't a sound or a movement, as Ernie examined him. The top of his two-inch long body and finger-nail sized wings was thinly covered with downy feathers. There was a moustache line for a tail. His little legs were too weak to hold him; but he wasn't injured.




Ten days earlier, we had found two dead baby robins on the terrace. They looked like miniature, plucked chickens hanging in an old-fashioned market.




Now, with field glasses, we saw the nest, all blown apart, swinging high in the maple tree. A shoe-box with holes in the cover and papers on the bottom, placed on a table in our sun-room, became Robbie's new home.




Ernie dug angleworms, and with eyebrow tweezers, dangled one before him. Nothing happened! Then we tapped his beak with the tweezers and made a clucking sound. The result was hilarious. A wide, opened beak and a long, featherless neck popped out. A small piece of worm was pushed half way down his throat before he would swallow. He could eat at fifteen minute intervals during daylight hours. We also fed him bread soaked in milk. He took naps, and I was surprised that he could sleep with one eye opened. The white-rimmed eyelids came up from the bottom to cover the eyeball. With darkness, he would sleep the whole night through.




I had often wondered how the birds could take their babies' digested debris in their beaks and carry it a distance from their nests before dropping it. On our long, black-topped driveway, a shuffleboard court is painted in white. Many birds choose this area for their dumping ground. Their parcels hit with a widespread, gushy flop. It was a white substance which changed many of the numbers. The court became a crazy-quilt of patterns, resembling an abstract painting.




As Robbie's foster mother, I soon learned how they accomplished this feat without soiling themselves. Robbie's digested exodus was a tissue-covered, jelly-like oval; which was odorless and left only a dampened spot on the paper in his box.




We called him, "Robbie". He quickly learned his name, and to recognize our voices. He soon discovered that he had vocal cords. His Chirps were wavery at first and less than melodious; but they brought him attention. This to him meant food; and the more we gave him, the louder his voice became.




Within a week, he was standing on his wobbly legs and pushing his big head and long, scrawny neck against the box top. Ernie said: " He looks like an old gentleman, who has forgotten his collar and tie."




A day later, I came indoors and found the cover pushed open, and Robbie was gone. I called:" Robbie, where are you? He answered with a friendly, "Chirp." He was exploring the magazine shelves, under the window. I immediately borrowed a bird cage. At first, he was somewhat tipsy, balancing himself on the perch.




We searched through many books to learn about feeding baby birds. One authority stated that a baby robin ate 41% MORE than his own weight every twelve hours! We couldn't keep up with his appetite, and gave him bread and milk. Ernie had made an electrical equipment to force worms to the ground's surface, which he used to obtain bait for his fish-pond. We filled a keg with dirt and worms and grass; but because of a drought, the worms were going deeper.




We received much friendly advice: " Give him grass."; "Give him lettuce."; " Give him ground beef." There was hamburg in the refrigerator; so I tried that. He ate it. I left to do other work.




A short time later, Ernie came inside and said: "Something is wrong with Robbie; he's acting strangely." I rushed to him. Yes, there he was, crouched low on the perch, his feathers puffed out, his head held against his body, and making a quivering movement. Ernie wondered: " Is he cold?" Standing behind the cage, I noticed Robbie's little rear-end, which was still naked. I exclaimed: " He is straining; the poor, little fellow is constipated: ! The fat in that hamburg was too much for his digestive system, considering his age."




" Of course," Ernie agreed, " The grit and fluid in the worms did the trick." He held him in his cupped hands, while I forced open his beak and forced three teaspoonfuls of warm water into it. He swallowed only a portion of it. We put him back on his perch and he stood upright.Shortly thereafter, the desired results occurred, and we put clean papers in his cage. Clean papers were put under his cage, before and after each feeding; because he had very rapid digestion.




We had to continue digging worms. The next day at the market, I asked the butcher to grind some beef that had no fat in it. We used this as a supplement to his diet.




Beside our house are bushes and during the summer and fall, birds feast on the berries they produce. Ernie brought in some small ones and gave one to Robbie. He swallowed it and opened his beak for another. We gave him three and waited to see if he digested them. A minute later, his beak popped open and out through the wires of the cage, flew a berry. Then came the second one, and finally, the third. He had upchucked them, one at a time!




As he grew, downy feathers appeared on his breast. There were brown spots on it; which showed his relationship to the thrush family. His stubby, little wings were growing larger; and he'd sit on the perch and flip them up and down. If we held the cage door open, and called: "Come out"; he'd come and perch on your fingers and "Chirp", for food. Then he might walk up your arm and sit on your shoulder. A few times he flew about the room.




His feeding time now was every half hour, but his intake was more. It was a laughable sight, when we put a long worm in his beak. He swallowed part of it, and then stopped to rest. The worm crawled out of his throat and dropped off his beak! He still would not pick up worms, not even a portion of one. We tried putting a small one on the floor, pointed to it with the tweezers, and said: " Look! There's a worm." He'd tip his head and look at it with one eye; then with a demanding, " Chirps ", open his beak to be fed. We succumbed to his demands.




I put a dish of water in the cage that he might drink. After pushing his beak into it a few times; he mastered the art of drinking. A half hour later, I went to feed him. To my consternation, he was dripping wet! He had bathed in the water. Each day thereafter, I gave him bath-water; but he bathed only every other day, preferably before noon.




We talked to him a lot and he answered us with a carol of chirps; sometimes running them together in high, gay tones; again they would be soft and slow, like a happy song. The most amazing sound was when we gently stroked him under his beak. Then we were rewarded with a crooning tune. He must have been humming; because his beak remained closed, but we could see movement in his throat. He objected to the smoke from our cigarettes. He made a funny, little, coughing noise, like a miniature hiccup. At night, we put a black cloth over his cage and closed the sun-room door. He didn't like to hear the TV after dark. Truly, we had a boss in our household, and his name was, " Robbie”.




We fed him small pieces of lettuce. He liked it; so I left some on the cage floor. Watching him from a distance, I noted: " He can eat lettuce without help; why not worms? We put small ones on his floor, but he'd just turn his head and watch them crawl out. One day, he came down from his perch and put his foot on one; but the worm crawled out from under and went undisturbed out of the cage. I scolded: " Robbie, why didn't you push those little claws through him and eat him?"




We have business interest in a town fifty miles from home. We occasionally go there for a few days. We put Robbie's cage in the back of our station-wagon; but we were immediately informed in the most raucous of bird language that he would not stay there. We tried to reassure him; to no avail. We feared he might break off a wing-feather by his nervous behavior. We put the cage between us on the front seat. Then he was happy !




We made two stops enroute to Port; so Robbie did get hungry. The last twenty miles, he constantly shrieked for food. He reached through the cage wires and pecked at my husband's wrist. Ernie pulled his arm out of reach; but Robbie could still grab the cloth of Ernie's jacket. He pulled it and shrilly chirped: " I'm here! I'm hungry! Can't you hear me?




In Port, we didn't have time to dig worms; so his diet was mostly beef. I put it in a dish and said: " You must eat that by yourself. " HE DID!!!




Back home again, he turned away from worms; wanted just beef. Hunger forced him to accept the worms again; which he still insisted be hand-fed to him! Then we learned about his temper. After eating a worm, he'd turn his back to us. We'd go around the cage and put our fingers inside. He'd peck them, and hang on! It really pinched and left indentation marks. The small, black feathers on his head would rise, and he'd scream out a harsh, discording note. When not angry, he'd put his beak gently over our fingers.




Almost unperceivably, over the weeks, he had grown; from a baby into adulthood. His pale breast with dark and light spots, was now a sleek, beautiful red; except for the streaked, white patch under his beak, which he will always retain.




It was October, and high in the cloudless sky of early Lundstrom evening, we saw the robins passing constantly southward. We were disturbed. " Would Robbie ever learn to pick for worms?




One morning, I put his cage, minus its floor, on the lawn; and put worms in the grass. He was so nervous at this new location, that he wouldn't look at them. I placed his cage on a large, stone bench. From the doorway, I observed three robins cautiously approach Robbie. They chirped, and he answered them. I don't know what they said; but thereafter, he became very nervous and rambunctious! He kept pushing his beak through the wires, wearing away feathers on each side of his beak. Flying about the cage, which now was too small; he broke off a wing feather and a tail feather. That tail, which we thought would never grow out, was now full size. He must have known it was time to fly south.




That afternoon I put a pan of worms, dirt and grass in his cage. I hid from his view and watched. He went into the pan and ate them unassisted ! " Hurray ! He had learned!"




The next morning I uncovered his cage and saw him sitting on only one leg. " Oh, Robbie " I cried, " What have you done to yourself?" I looked to the bottom of his cage, expecting to see a dismembered leg ! When asleep, his breast feathers were always puffed out like a fluffy powder-puff. When he retracted the feathers, down came the other leg, out of hiding! He stretched out one wing and smoothed its feathers with his beak; then the same procedure with the other one; then he preened the tail. Lastly, the beak was wiped clean on the perch.




I gave him a pan of dirt and worms. He ate them like an old professional!




The next day, robins were on the lawn, so we took the top of his cage outside to the stone bench. I pulled out the perch and let it drop onto the stone.He tipped his head and looked at it,- then at me. I knew he was wondering why i had done that.




We propped open the cage-door and said: " Come out." He looked out, and again we said: "

Come out, Robbie." He did, and with steady, unwavering strokes, flew to the hedge of evergreen trees.




We looked up and called: " Come here. " He wouldn't, but he answered us. Then he began picking bugs from a branch of the Norway-Spruce.




Later, I saw him with the robins, in the lawn. I called his name. They flew, but he stayed and answered me. When I came closer, he joined his friends. The next day, he and four others were in a tree, and I called: " Robbie ". They all flew, but as they passed over my head, I called him again. Making an abrupt turn in midair, he came to a bush near me. We had a conversation. I don't know what he said; but it was friendly. Then he joined the others. Whenever we saw him, we'd call him and he'd stop nearby and chat. A few days later, Robbie and his friends started south.




We do hope that birds can converse with each other. When he marries, what a tale he'll have to tell his family! ! : He had people for parents; he grew up in a house; rode in an automobile and watched TV ! I do hope they'll believe him ! We also hope that he will come back next spring and remember to say, " Hello " to us.




Marjorie C. Lundstrom