365 Urban Species. Species #030: American Robin

[urbpan]

American robin in Olmsted Park, Boston. by cottonmanifesto

Urban species #030: American Robin Turdus migratorius

A great many of the species for which human land use has been a blessing rather than a curse, are not well loved. There are "pests" like mice and rats, and introduced plagues like house sparrows and starlings, but even charismatic native species are often disdained when they become too familiar. Squirrels and crows, raccoons and deer, woodchucks and bats, all are studied in the interest of controlling them--each is treated by worried suburbanites as a troubling problem. Rarely if ever is the American robin seen this way. In my time spent at the wildlife sanctuary, I often hear wildlife-related grievances, but never have I fielded a robin-related complaint: "Those damn red-breasted birds, you know the ones I mean, they're always on my lawn, taking away my valuable earthworms!"

What's to object to? Their song is sweet and pleasant, unlike the harsh screams of gulls and crows. They don't aggressively defend their territories, swooping at your head like mockingbirds, nor do they raid birdfeeders like jays, stuffing their crops full to cache away seeds. Robins are celebrated. Poem and song exalt them, though they are heirs to praise earned only through faint similarity, and an accident of misnaming. Any praise given to "robin" before North America was colonized belongs to the English robin, a smaller bird and distant cousin. The American robin was so named not for any close kinship but because the bird vaguely reminded the Europeans of their cherished bird, in breast and behavior.

Both birds are marked with reddish fronts, and both birds have learned that human activity turns up invertebrate prey. Robins of both sorts watch gardeners and farmers turning the soil, watching for exposed grubs and worms. American robins also like to hunt earthworms in the close-cropped lawns favored by American humans. They like to nest in the kind of small trees and tall shrubs that are found next to houses, and feed on the fruits of ornamental bushes and trees. A better name for them might be "lawn thrush" or even "house thrush." They are the most common and most widespread thrush in North America. Though robins are famous for appearing in the spring, they are present year-round in Boston. [edited to add:] Cities in milder climates may see the arrival of huge migrating flocks of robins as a sign of winter.

Comments

[by-steph.livejournal.com]

Au contraire. I knew a woman that didn't like them because they bounce. She wanted to know why they wouldn't walk "properly".

[zipotle.livejournal.com]

Shoot. I was all excited because "IT'S SPRING!!" until I read the last sentence.

There was some thrush in Germany that looked like Robins only without a red front; I called them German Robins. They came for Spring too.

[izzy23.livejournal.com]

As I've mentioned in my journal before, down here in Florida, robins mean winter, especially in large numbers. We have a handful year-round, but when you start to see flocks of hundreds of 'em (and they create quite a spectacle, with noise to match!), then you know it's about to get chilly.

We get flocks of cedar waxwings at about the same time, and sometimes the flocks will mingle. I've walked into my backyard in early February and had birds of both species swooping within a couple of feet of me going from one cherry laurel tree to another. The air would be alive with them for an hour or two at a time before they'd pick the trees clean and move on.

[droserary.livejournal.com]

When I was young, my family raised a robin from hatchling. We released her after she matured, expecting to never see her again, but she stuck around all summer and fall. Every morning at 6:30am, she would be on the railing outside our house, singing for her morning treat of applesauce and bread. She seemed to thrive well, despite imprinting on humans. She hung around our yard, came when called, and didn't depend on us too much for food and socialization. Come winter, though, she disappeared--we feared the worst but hoped for the best. Often we wondered if the robins visiting our yard were her offspring. Intelligent little creatures...

[cottonmanifesto.livejournal.com]

I'd just like to note that I used the digital zoom on my camera for these photos.