When the Red, Red Robin . . .
The nation’s favourite bird, by Lin Bensley
NO British bird epitomises the spirit of Christmas more than our own robin redbreast who is frequently portrayed on postage stamps, Christmas cards, festive decorations, wrapping paper and even snow globes! Celebrated extensively in poetry and song, the robin has become as synonymous with the season of goodwill as mistletoe, Christmas pudding and Santa Claus.
Since the mid-19th century we have come to associate the bird specifically with Christmas – probably because the Victorian postman wore a bright scarlet uniform which earned him the nicknamed “Robin”. Additionally, the bird is often depicted upon Christmas cards or perched atop a post box which has further strengthened the link.
There is, however, some evidence found in artwork from previous centuries that suggests we had already come to identify the robin with Yuletide; perhaps simply because it was a colourful and cheery addition to an otherwise bleak landscape.
Over the ages we have found the bird’s cordial manner endearing. How willingly he accompanies us when digging, and how brazenly he drops at our feet to snatch a worm from the turned earth and retire to the handle of a spade to devour his reward!
Unlike other garden birds, such as the house sparrow or starling for instance, the robin has always proved to be a tameable companion and will readily feed out of the hand with little coaxing and will venture indoors at the slightest provocation. If inside is found to its liking, it will frequently revisit; often by tapping insistently upon the window to demand admission.
A robin has nested in the gardens of all six houses where I have lived. That is as good an example as any, I feel, of how the bird has adapted it habits to live alongside man, even if it often chooses the most inappropriate nest sites. I recall finding one in a coal shed, one in a loose woodpile and another upon the ground in a tangle of
The fireside for the Cricket, The wheatstack for the Mouse, When trembling night winds whistle And moan all round the house; The frosty ways like iron, The branches plumed with snow, – Alas! In winter, dead and dark, Where can poor Robin go? Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! And a crumb of bread for Robin, His little heart to cheer. William Allingham
ivy beside a child’s swing.
Acclaimed 19th-century zoologist William Yarrell contemplated the robin with astute insight.
The sprightly air of the species, the full dark eye and the sidelong turn of the head, give an appearance of sagacity and inquiry to their character, which, aided by their confidence, has gained them friends; and the Robin has accordingly acquired some domestic name in almost every country of Europe.
Indeed the eye of the robin is disproportionally large and its habit of watching us at close quarters lends credence to Yarrell’s remarks about its studious nature.
In Britain, to harm a robin has always been regarded as inviting the severest misfortune. It was scarcely and only sporadically trapped for food, whereas in mainland Europe they were highly prized for the dining table and were killed in significant numbers. The practice, regrettably, continues to this day in the Mediterranean region where migrating birds are still slaughtered wholesale.
Again unlike our European neighbours, we have never been overly keen on caging the pleasing songbird for our own gratification and perhaps we have taken to heart as a nation William Blake’s assertion that:
A robin redbreast in a cage
Puts all Heaven in a rage.
But as much as we enjoy the mutual bond that appears to exist between us, there is a darker side to the robin that most people rarely see. The bird is aggressively territorial, and will often fight to the death to defend its chosen patch.
It has been estimated that ten per cent of all adult birds are killed annually when establishing their spring and autumn territories, though exactly why they fight so vigorously to defend their boundaries outside the breeding season remains something of a mystery. One Edwardian naturalist noted:
If another robin from a neighbouring “run” happens to intrude into the ground belonging to a rival, a battle-royal takes place; and so persistently do they fight that sometimes the victor will not leave until the other is dead. Quite recently, I saw two fighting in the middle of a field, the ground at the time being covered in snow.
There is much about the behaviour of this familiar bird that we do not understand. No one can explain why in late autumn most female robins migrate to Europe reaching as far south as Spain, while the males remain in residence here at home. It is an odd phenomena that appears to be peculiar to the species. Nor is it understood why the robin sings at night or during the day outside the mating season. Its penchant for nocturnal singing throughout the year was recorded long before the advent of artificial light and there has been some conjecture that the 1940 war-time hit, A Nightingale Sang In Berkeley Square is a classic case of mistaken identity.
Exactly why the bird continues to sing in daylight hours during autumn and winter when it is evidently not seeking a mate is one of many conundrums surrounding the recondite robin that we have yet to solve. Apart from a short spell in July when moulting, the bird sings all the year round and most of us can recognise its song; delivered in short melodious phases tinged with a distinct air of melancholy, it never fails to hearten, even on the dreariest of days.
Having twice been voted the nation’s favourite bird, it should come as no surprise that the robin has always featured prominently in our folklore and legend. One of the most famous tales relating to the robin is that of Babes in the Wood which was first published in 1601 and tells of two children who meet a grim fate after being abandoned in a wood by their wicked uncle:
Thus wandered these poor innocents, Till death did end their grief; In one another’s arms they died, as wanting due relief: No burial this pretty pair, From any man receives, Till Robin Redbreast piously, Did cover them with leaves.
The belief that the robin cared for the dead and covered an unburied corpse was once a strongly held conviction and echoed in many stories including John Webster’s tragedy play
The White Devil and is also mentioned in Cornucopia by that learned wit and lexicographer Samuel Johnson.
The robin too has on occasion been the victim of foul play, as chronicled in the famous robin rhyme; An Elegy on the Death and Burial of Cock Robin, better known as Who Killed
Cock Robin? and most of us are able at least to recite the opening lines: “Who killed Cock Robin? I, said the Sparrow, with my bow and arrow. I killed Cock Robin.”
First published in Tommy Thumb’s Pretty Song Book (1744) it has been mooted that the poem could be a satirical comment on the fall of Robert Walpole’s government two years previous (Robin being the diminutive form of Robert), but earlier sources can be found among ancient European rhymes and the theme has similar ties to Norse mythology and the story of the god Baldur who is killed by an arrow made of mistletoe.
As one might expect, there are several tales purporting to account for how the robin acquired his red breast.
One tells of how he flew to the aid of Jesus as he carried the Cross to Calgary, and while removing a thorn from his saviour’s briary crown he pierced his own breast in the process and covered it in blood.
Another tells of how he sought to comfort Christ upon the Cross by attempting to wipe away his tears with his wings, and while endeavouring to remove the thorns from his crown a drop of Holy Blood fell upon his breast and stained it bright red. With his dying breath Jesus blessed the bird and declared that wherever he went he would be a bearer of good tidings and felicity and joy would follow in his wake. Could it be as a bearer of good tidings that we feel the need to feature the robin so prominently upon Christmas cards?
Perhaps, embedded deep in our psyche, the bird has become as much a potent symbol of our Saviour’s birth as his crucifixion.