I was digging out a deeply embedded weed recently, when I unearthed two big worms. (Since I’ve switched exclusively to cocoa shell mulch, available at any good garden center, that population has massively increased.) Absently I popped the panicked, squirming creatures onto my hat brim while I carried on digging; they’d be safe there for a minute. (When done I’d simply tip my hat; they’d fall back to earth, unscathed, and burrow in again.)
But now I heard the whirr of wings. An adolescent robin landed right next to me, head cocked, wanting to dine on those worms, but baffled as to how to tackle them where they were. I noticed how lean the speckle-breasted birdling was. His parents had wished him well after a decent training period; this gawky youngster was clearly on his own. So far he’d escaped cats, cars, and other disasters. (Half-grown robins are, in my opinion, dangerously naïve, and too quick to trust what they haven’t learned to fear. He’d been lucky.) Now, he was pointedly demanding a worm breakfast.
I found myself in a tricky position.
Should I toss them to the eager bird- and betray them?
Should I shoo him away that hungry?
Ah, I hate these moral dilemmas.
Compromise, old girl.
I sat back on my heels and tipped off the worms. Plop. Upon landing they immediately began burrowing into the soft earth. The robin waited impatiently as I moved over to give him room. (I took my time.) Only the tip of one worm’s tail was still visible. The robin bounced closer, grabbed its vanishing hind end, and pulled hard. Out it came, after a fight, and gulp- down it went. The other one barely escaped, somehow sensing the breath of death near its twitching rear. The robin was acutely disappointed.
Which triggered a special memory…
When I was a youngster my mother raised a robin one summer at our cottage on Elk Lake. A little guy had been blown out of his nest during a windstorm. In the morning she found him, naked and hollering, under our huge maple tree. She dashed into the kitchen to roll hamburger worms, fed the shocked, cold baby, then tucked him into a twiggy nest she fashioned in a shoebox. A soft, oven-warmed flannel was placed over Bert- she loved her name for him- to simulate the security of his bird-mom’s downy breast.
She was pretty much fixed on that bird for weeks, as he demanded enormous amounts of food. Besides developing into an expert bug and worm catcher she kept the nest clean, and the flannel scrap warm and ready.
Gradually, fluffy down changed to operating feathers as he grew into his once-enormous mouth. Eventually Bert hopped onto the grass to practice foraging; he stayed close to home base, though, and Mom made sure he had frequent nest-naps. A little later, after flapping a lot, he practiced short, awkward half-flights around the immediate area. Then one day everything clicked: he soared happily into the summer-blue sky, and vanished. Oh, she missed him, but emphasized that this was The Natural Way of Things. Little ones show up, grow up, and then, they go. (Up, in this case.)
One sunny July day the following summer, while hanging sheets on our long wash line, she heard a familiar tune sung right behind her. When she turned around, her heart leaped! There, beautifully orange-breasted in his adult plumage, was Bert, perched on a low branch. Mom’s face lit up with amazement and happiness.
He looked at her intently, and didn’t panic when she moved close, but wouldn’t allow touching. Instead, head cocked, he watched her for a good while. Remembering? Eventually, with a final chirp, he flew off to his life. She’d received a cheery hello, a warm thank you, and a last goodbye. Such a gift!
My reverie was interrupted: the ravenous robin was back! He’d landed on the lawn about three feet away, and was now doing his Oliver Twist ‘bowl-beg:’ Please, Sir; I want some more.
I wasn’t about to hand him a fat squirmer; he needed to work for his dinner. I remembered with amusement how fully-fledged young robins would land noisily on the garden lawn and squawk loudly, demanding bugs from their frazzled parents. The weary adults did comply, but reluctantly. (Six weeks of servitude for their never-satisfied offspring is a hard-wired response, difficult to abandon overnight.) Finally, though, they felt they’d done quite enough, thank you. Food was offered crawler-slowly, and then- not at all.
They were done. The kids were launched, like it or not.
I did grab a generous handful of rich, mulched earth, turn it over, and quickly leave. I’ll say this: there was no grass growing on that avian. He rushed over there to pounce on a truly epic worm. It was gone in a few gulps. Then, after listening hard, he pulled out another. Eventually he flew off, crammed with what I guessed was his first really decent meal.
My grin was guilt-free.