The other day at work, I was standing outside and noticed a strange sound. It was a high-pitched but soft whistle, repeated at regular intervals. It was not a bird call I’d heard before, so I looked around a bit and noticed two robins on the strip of grass that borders our parking lot. One was a male, and it was he who was doing the whistling, I could see—he was standing sentinel over a female, who was gathering grasses for her nest.
The female had a mouthful of grass that stuck out on either side of her beak like a Fu-Manchu mustache. It was rather comical to see her bend and pick up strands and add them to the sheaf of grass that she carried—she never dropped any of them, but kept adding to the bundle each time she dipped her head and eventually as I watched her, her bundle grew quite large for such a small bird. The male was obviously either encouraging her in her endeavor, or pointing out pieces she missed—hard to tell which. He stood a couple feet away, and would hop here or there, whistling that strange one-note call and wait until she found the spot he pointed out, then she would grab a few more pieces of grass. It was like watching a foreman oversee a work-site.
I thought at first it might be courting behavior, not really understanding (until I looked it up) what robins did during mating. But no, these robins had mated already, and were into the home-decorating stage of marriage; it was a bit like a newlywed couple buying curtains or rugs. “What do you think, honey? Is the green one better than the brown one? Will this go with our living room furniture? Do you like the one with the roses, or the one with the stripes?” The grass that the female wore like Fu Manchu was going to line her nest for her babies.
Throughout this Spring, I have been stalked by robins. Just the other day while mowing the lawn, I saw a very large male standing on my picnic table watching me as I mowed around the ash tree and up against the railroad tie wall that borders my driveway. He stood there and stared—it was rather disconcerting, really—and didn’t seem at all put off by the sound of the mower. I waved to him, said hello. He eyeballed me the entire time. I thought perhaps he was trying to tell me something, but couldn’t imagine what; after all, birds have their own agendas—nothing to do with us. Nevertheless, he watched me for the entire time I stayed out there mowing, following me from one part of the yard to another, always staying a respectful distance away, but always there—it was almost unnerving.
I didn’t know much about robins. So I did some research. Turns out, the female robin lays two or three clutches of eggs per season, not just one as I had thought. Some of them mate with the same individuals season after season. They line their nests with soft grass, as I had seen the two at my office doing, and the male participates in the nest-building and lining, and will even sit on the eggs for the female while she feeds. But what did they eat? Robins are not feeder birds—I never see them at the seed trays or suet baskets. I assumed they ate bugs and earthworms, like most thrushes, but it turns out I was wrong about that too. Oh, they do eat seeds sometimes, and worms as well—but that’s not their favorite food. No—their favorite food is fruit. In particular, strawberries. And the other shoe suddenly dropped. Now I knew why the large male had been watching me mow, and what he was trying to get across—the wall next to my drive is where I grow strawberries. He wasn’t stalking me, he was waiting—for me to get the hell away from his buffet.
I had never noticed robins eating my berries. I’ve raised a bumper crop of strawberries—everbearing type, very sweet and prolific—in a thin strip of plants next to my driveway, on top of the railroad-tie wall. I’ve had the patch for years. It’s a great little strawberry patch, and from this one 20-foot strip of plants, I actually get enough berries every year to freeze for the winter months. I don’t have much trouble with insects there, and haven’t even had a lot of slugs, since the wall prevents them from crawling to the fruit, and the good drainage keeps the soil from compacting. However, there are always a few berries I find with little “nicks” taken out of them, as if whatever ate them had a tiny paring knife and just wanted a slice or two of the ripe fruit. And once in a while, I would find one that had been completely bitten down to the stem it hung from. That had always puzzled me. I didn’t notice any insects other than slugs, and I wasn’t convinced that squirrels were doing the damage, since I have virtually no squirrels in my yard—the cats see to that for me. I chalked it up to night-time berry-eating animals, and let it go. I don’t use pesticides or soil treatments in the patch, and I don’t mind losing a few berries to Nature’s ways—I have plenty to share. But a berry with one bite taken out of it? That’s not slug behavior. They bore little round holes. Squirrels pick and run. And cats, as far as I know, don’t eat fruit.
And of course, robins are ubiquitous—you see them all over, everywhere, hopping through the yard after a rain, flying here and there—they become part of the Springtime and Summer landscape, doing their thing without interference. But not now. And especially not this year. The cool Spring we’ve had, and the large amount of rain, has managed to fill my berry plants to the maximum with buds, blossoms and sweet, red, ripe strawberries. I’m raising a spectacular number of strawberries in my little patch. And the robins know it.
My berries are a veritable gourmet feast for robins. The only thing they want to tell me when they sit and watch as I pick, or mow, or cultivate is to get out of the way—they’re hungry.
The evening after I saw the Fu Manchu robin picking grass, when I returned home from work, I saw them at work on my patch. Two of them—large males. Hopping along that very convenient railroad-tie wall, moving from one plant to another. They didn’t even flinch when I walked up to them as they ate. That evening when I went to harvest, sure enough there were little nicks and cuts in some of the berries. Not all, not most—but some. They aren’t that greedy, and besides—there is a wonderfully full blackberry bush not too far away. I’m sure they’ll find that almost as appealing.
It might be time for some floating row-cover, or bird netting. But not just yet. I’ve already enjoyed four quarts of berries from my strawberry patch, with more to come in another week. And the blackberries haven’t ripened yet—but they will soon. There are a lot of earthworms around now, and the grass has gone to seed, and the eggs have been laid and the nests lined; by the time they get ready to feed those babies, there will be plenty to share. I’m not greedy either.
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