March 6th

1825

The little Robin has begun his summer song in good earnest he was singing at my chamber window this morning almost before daylight as he has done all this week & at nightfall he comes regularly to his old plumb tree & starts again—there is a plaintive sweetness in the song of this bird that I am very fond of it may be calld an eternal song for it is heard at intervals all the year round & in the Autumn when the leaves are all fled from the trees there is a mellancholy sweetness in it that is very touching to my feelings—the Robin is one of the most familiar birds that a village landscape posseses & it is no less beloved for even children leave its nest unmolested but the Wren & the Martin are held in the like veneration with a many people who will not suffer their nests to be destroyed—the Robin seems to be fond of the company & haunts of men it builds its nest close to his cottage in the hovel or outhouse thatch or behind the woodbine or sweetbriar in the garden wall nor does it seem to make any secret of its dwelling were its only enemy is the cat to whom its confidence of saftey often falls a prey—& it seeks its food by his door on the dunghill or on the garden beds nay it will even settle on the gardeners spade while he is at work to watch the worm that he throws up & unbares & in winter it will venture into the house for food & become as tame as a chicken—we had one that usd to come in at a broken pane in the window three winters together I always knew it to be our old visitor by a white scar on one of the wings it grew so tame that it woud perch on ones finger & take the crumbs out of the hand it was very much startld at the cat at first but after a time it took little notice of her further than always contriving to keep out of her way.

John Clare
(John Clare (13 July 1793 – 20 May 1864) was an English poet, born the son of a farm labourer who came to be known for his celebratory representations of the English countryside and his lamentation of its disruption.)