Chapter 9: Rockin’ Robin

Nothing more startling in a bird way ever happened to me than during a drill by the Hawaiian police (June 17, 1936), when one of their number came out and did a whistling stunt. There was an audience of some twenty-five thousand that witnessed the show in the Multnomah Stadium; and soon after the man began to whistle, about 11 P.M., a robin came down out of the darkness onto the field within a few feet of the whistler (the field was lighted by high-powered food-lights), and sang as long as the whistling continued. Many of us thought it was a prearranged stunt, but as soon as the whistling was over, the robin flew away into the darkness.

No two snowflakes, we’re told, are exactly alike; each has sufficient individuality to make it a unique entity. Similarly, no two robins sing their morning carol in exactly the same way. Each male redbreast strings phrases and accents notes just a little bit differently than any of his neighbors. There are, to be sure, underlying qualities that characterize the musical talents of the species as a whole. But when meticulously analyzed as some scientists have done, each robin’s song turns out to be, like the delicate snowflake, a unique creation unduplicated in our universe. And there is something wonderful in that.

In addition to their basic carol, robins boast an impressive variety of other vocalizations. Their repertoire is so extensive that only those listeners who are most familiar with the species can consistently recognize each song and call. Nevertheless, we can try to summarize at least the highlights of robin vocabulary. First, though, let’s look specifically at the robin’s renowned morning carol, that cheerful melody which bursts upon one’s senses with as much invigorating inspiration as the crimson rays of the rising sun.

Cheer-up, Cheerily

The robin’s bread-n-butter song is basically a string of two-and three-note phrases that continue, with variation, for an indefinite period of time. Translated into human tongue, the sound is most frequently represented as something akin to “cheer-up, cheerily; cheer-up, cheer-up, cheerily.” But different listeners prefer different syllabifications. Thus did Dr. Leroy Titus Weeks in 1923 offer the world his now-infamous rendition of the robin’s song:

Pillywink, pollywog, poodle, poodle,
Pollywog, poodle, pillywink, pillywink,
Poodle, poodle, pillywink, pollywog,
Poodle, poodle.

Nothing so consistently brings a smile to my face—except, perhaps, hearing the robin’s morning carol—as does reading Dr. Weeks’ fantastic verbiage.

Generally speaking, only male robins sing, although females do give various short calls that warn of predators and the like. This male monopoly of melody is not too surprising given that the primary utilities of robin song are territorial defense (which falls mainly within the male’s realm of responsibility) and sexual advertisement (if both sexes sang to attract mates, much awkward confusion could mark the meeting of, say, two females on the prowl). Often the male has a favorite rooftop or perch within his territory where he likes to sing. Like many songbirds, robins appear to prefer a certain “minimum height” for a song perch, and they are reluctant to sing at heights lower than this minimum. These heights vary from species to species, and for the robin it is about a dozen feet—relatively high as minimum singing heights go. This preference is not rigid, however, and robins will occasionally deliver a chorus while foraging on a lawn. A bar or two may also be uttered on the wing.

Admittedly, the robin is not the greatest of bird singers either in terms of tonal quality (compared to, for instance, a Hermit or Wood Thrush) or in terms of improvisation (compared to a Northern Mockingbird). Nevertheless, Rockin’ Robin brandishes an above-average tune. And what he lacks in fine artistry is more than compensated by his enthusiasm, which in itself is enough to stir an appreciative wiggle from any human ear. Like an eagerly auditioning trumpeter, the robin throws back his head, blasts out his song, and utterly drowns out competing minstrels of other species. We might resent the way he confidently dominates the morning air were his zesty music not so pleasing to hear.

Do robins sing all year round or are there months in which they are silent? The general answer is that robins sing primarily during their breeding season and are pretty songless the rest of the time. Robins are almost completely silent during spring migration, for example, unlike the majority of American birds who typically arrive at their breeding grounds with a song in their hearts and a tune on their beaks. Within a few days to a week after arriving in the North, however, our robin is crooning up and down his territorial boundaries as he determinedly warns other males to keep away while simultaneously extending warm invitations to any fair maiden within earshot.

Once begun in April, such singing continues until the end of summer. Then during August the music becomes increasingly thin as more and more individuals drop out of the robin choir; by September nearly all the males are generally silent except for an occasional outburst or two now and again. A slight resurgence may occur around October, but for the most part the robin carol is kaput until the following spring. Except for various call notes, robins are more or less silent during their winter stay in the South.

It is impossible, of course, to pinpoint precise dates of song initiation and cessation from year to year, or even for the species as a whole during a given year. The initiation of song will vary by a matter of weeks, both with the latitude of a given locality (since migrants arrive much later at locations as far north as Canada compared to locations in the Mid-Atlantic states), and with the particular year (since migration proceeds more quickly during mild springs than during harsh ones. And of course there are always large individual differences among robins such that even during a given year at a given location, one individual may start (or stop) singing long before another individual does. Nevertheless, the above-noted pattern of song is still generally true for the population as a whole.

We might now ask whether during the singing season robins warble continuously throughout the day. Generally they do not. To be sure, in early April when territories are in flux and mates are being won, a male may sing almost nonstop from dawn till dusk. But soon his cantillations are largely restricted to early morning and evening hours, being perhaps a bit more subdued in the evening. Robins may sing at any time of day, however, if the sky is cloudy. Why should gloomy clouds spur an otherwise silent robin into gleeful vocal expression? The answer lies within the fact that, like many other songbirds, the robin’s singing is strongly regulated by the intensity of light around him.

Robins typically begin their morning carol in dim light (around 02 foot-candles), which explains why they are among the earliest of our singers; most other species wait until the rising sun makes the world hundreds of times brighter before whistling their first note. Atmospheric conditions affect the robin’s daily starting time, which is earlier on crisp mornings resplendent with moonbeams and later on overcast mornings veiled with clouds. The dimming light at dusk again stimulates the male to sing, as do midday clouds or even eclipses.

Once when I was visiting Chicago I heard a robin sing outside my bedroom window at ungodly hours of the night (1:00-3:00 am). The particular neighborhood I was in just happened to be unusually well-illuminated at night by powerful crime-preventing street lamps. These beacons of safety were sufficiently strong to maintain a light intensity above the caroling threshold of some bleary-eyed but still cheery robin.

A less surprising effect of light intensity is that robins sing earlier in the morning at higher latitudes than at lower ones, since daylight arrives sooner at the higher. While my Chicago crooner was unusual at his 42°N latitude, one-in-the-morning ballads are not rare at 60°N latitude (say in northern Quebec). And in keeping with our altitude-equals-latitude principle (described in Chapter 2), we would expect mountain-dwelling redbreasts to receive the sun’s first rays sooner, and so begin their morning carol earlier, than valley-living birds.

If light intensity modifies the timing of the robin’s daybreak chorus along the dimensions of latitude and altitude, so too it must in way of longitude. Since morning arrives in the East before the West, Boston Robins sing sooner than Seattle Robins. Such an obvious point would not be worth mentioning were it not for the charmingly picturesque allusion to the matter that has been made in the past.

“On every vernal morning,” a poetic ornithologist once remarked, “a wave of robin song rises on the Atlantic coast to hail the coming day, and so, preceding the rising sun, rolls across the land until at last it breaks and dies away upon the distant shores of the Pacific Ocean.” Oh, if only we humans could cast off the blindfold of spatial limitation and actually perceive this daily wave! We surely then would witness one of the great dramatic events of Nature. Still, whether we perceive it or not, this grand robin opera continues to salute each summer dawn as it has faithfully done since time immemorial.

Other Vocalizations

Now let’s look at some other aspects of robin parlance. We humans may not always be able to interpret these vocalizations with complete accuracy but doubtless the robins themselves converse in their birdy lingo rather fluently.

The robin’s courtship song is sung almost exclusively during April when mister is wooing missus. This moving melody is similar to the carol except that it is much softer. With closed bill, the male whispers sweet nothings to his newly chosen bride who, most likely, is but a yard or two away.

Resembling the courtship song is the rain song, which also is a soft under-the-breath sort of tune. Given during the darkness that precedes a summer storm, this rain song is a subdued version of the morning carol sung in response to the decreased intensity of light that foreboding clouds bring. From a somewhat less scientific perspective, the whistling robins appear to be stirred to merriment by the pleasing proposition of wiggling worms driven to surface by the upcoming downpour.

The warning call is a high-pitched note that robins sound at the sight of a flying predator, such as a hawk. Interestingly, military planes flying in formation have also been known to evoke these warning calls from wary robins. This do-it-yourself air-raid siren is usually accompanied by “freezing” (remaining motionless) on the part of the bird who initiates it, and the sound itself in turn elicits freezing from other robins who hear it.

Even members of other species—including, remarkably, domestic chickens—will freeze when the robin alert is given. Typically, freezing lasts as long as the call continues, which may mean anywhere from ten seconds to ten minutes. Should robins be caught out in the open when the warning call is sounded—if, for example, they are feeding on a shelterless lawn—they will probably first fly up into the nearest bush or tree before becoming statuesque.

In one interesting report, a month-old human-reared robin suddenly stopped preening and froze when he heard the warning call of robins outside his room, even though curtains shielded all the windows so that he could not possibly have seen the predator outside. This same fledgling had himself given the warning call when, at the mere age of eighteen days, he had detected a Cooper’s Hawk flying by the window. With little doubt, then, the warning call is largely an instinctive response to a flying predator since this human-reared orphan could not have learned how to give the call, or how to respond to it, from either his natural parents or any other adult robins.

This anecdote brings up the more general question of how robins develop their own brand of song. In one experiment that studied the morning carol, robins were separately raised from hatch in complete isolation from all other robins, so that the birds never heard any conspecifics sing. These isolated individuals subsequently developed a carol that was recognizably characteristic of an American Robin but was definitely abnormal in that the phraseology was atypically simple. In other words, a robin nestling must be able to hear other robins sing before it will develop a “normal” carol of its own.

In this same study, a second group of robins were experimentally deafened right after they hatched so that they could not even hear themselves sing. These deaf redbreasts developed an extremely abnormal song—barely more than a series of disconnected notes and scarcely recognizable as sounds made by a robin. It would appear, then, that for normal development of at least the carol, a young robin needs to hear other robins sing, but hearing one’s own self is better than nothing. Other vocalizations such as the warning call may, as noted above, be more instinctive and unlearned in nature.

Let us continue our survey of robin vocabulary. When robin parents see a cat or perhaps a squirrel near their nest, they begin a cat call which has been described as a “wailing cry” expressing “both fear and sorrow.” This woeful wail may eventually evolve into a screaming shriek as an audacious attack is launched, and the resulting ruckus will quickly rally other raucous redbreasts to the skirmish. Diving and screeching and occasionally delivering blows against the hated intruder, the winged troops are usually able to drive the enemy away.

Another robin antagonist who typically receives an abrasive greeting is the owl. Owls usually rest during the day, and toward this end they try to find a quiet secluded tree branch for napping. Should a robin happen to discover a snoozing owl, however, fireworks start to fly. A mobbing call is given and within minutes, numerous robins and other songbirds are screaming, diving, and in general harassing the bewildered predator until the owl finally departs in pursuit of more peaceful surroundings.

Then there is the robin’s food call which is given by fledglings who, hiding in bushes, thereby make their presence and hunger known to their parents (usually their father). This call is a bit risky since through it a cat may locate the youngster before the parents do. So parentally irresistible is the drawing power of this call that neighboring robins who have eggs, nestlings or even fledglings of their own may nonetheless be seduced into bringing tasty morsels to a plaintive bush-baby who belongs to someone else. As with the mobbing call, birds of other species may also respond to a young robin’s food call. Once a male cardinal, whose own nestlings had perished in a storm, fed nearby robin fledglings so faithfully that they soon followed him as he foraged about the lawn.

In summary, the robin has a host of songs and calls, each one of which reflects a characteristic mood or crisis. Technically speaking, we must concede that our robin is not a truly master musician, at least compared to some of the other more talented thrushes. Yet in the final analysis, we judge bird song not by its musical quality nor even by its creativeness, but by its effect on the human spirit. And when measured by this standard, the song of robins—whether sweet carols telling of springtime promise, courtship whispers inviting communions of love, or war cries whooped in defense of young—is surely among Nature’s most moving sounds.