The robin, 'jolly Robin!' is an unlucky bird in some places. When the
horse-chestnut leaves turn scarlet the redbreast sings in a peculiarly
plaintive way, as if in tone with the dropping leaves and the chill air
that follows the early morning frost. You may tell how much moisture
there is in the air in a given place by the colours of the autumn leaves;
the horse-chestnut, scarlet near a stream, is merely yellowish in drier
soils. Cock robin sings the louder for the silence of other birds, and if
he comes to the farmstead and pipes away day by day on a bare cherry tree
or any bough that is near the door, after his custom, the farmer thinks
it an evil omen. For a robin to sing persistently near the house winter
or summer is a sign that something is about to go wrong. Yet the farmer
will not shoot him. The roughest poaching fellows who would torture a dog
will not kill a robin; it is bad luck to have anything to do with it.
Most people like to see fir boughs and holly brought into the house to
brighten the dark days with their green, but the cottage children tell
you that they must not bring a green fir branch indoors, because as it
withers their parents will be taken ill and fade away. Indeed the
labouring people seem in all their ways and speech to be different,
survivals perhaps of a time when their words and superstitions were the
ways of a ruder England. The lanes and the gateways in the fields, as
they say, are 'slubby' enough in November, and those who try to go
through get 'slubbed' up to their knees.
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