This is the fourth year that the resident robin has been visiting us and every day, we still use the same routine as we always have done, saying ‘Hello robin, do you want some worms?’. There follows the usual sequence of events as the robin flits quickly from one perch to another, coming to rest on the work bench in the garage where the mealworm pot is kept and waiting for its worm treat.
For the male blackbird, it’s the second year. He’s pretty much a daily visitor, sometimes coming as many as three times a day, though there are days when we don’t see him at all. He likes his mealworms too, but he doesn’t come into the garage, preferring to stand on the threshold and eat there. We use the same words with him as well. The female isn’t as frequent a visitor but, when she does, he defers to her and she eats first. It happens rarely, but the look he gets from her if he dares to take the last worm is priceless. He’ll step forward and snatch it and she’ll glare at him like he’s just delivered the most offensive insult you could imagine.
As we feed the birds, we talk to them and they’ve become used to the sound of our voices. Looking at how these birds react to what we say, I think it’s possible that both the robin and the male blackbird have learned the word ‘worm’. The robin started reacting first, about a year ago. Karl told me that it had tweeted at him when he asked if it wanted worms, though we nearly always get a quick bob on the mention of the word. I got a surprising reaction when I went out to the woodshed recently. I was reaching in for some wood when the robin landed on a piece of wood a few inches from my head and sat watching me. I made the usual greeting and for each of the three times I said ‘worms’ it fluttered its wings for a couple of seconds and then followed me straight to the worm pot.
The blackbird isn’t as bold and generally waits to be noticed from a short distance away, often sitting the roof of the other shed. When I turn and invite him to come and have some worms, he looks up alertly and then runs across the shed roof before swooping down to the ground at my feet. Today I went out and called to him where he was sitting on the garage roof and he too fluttered his wings at each mention of ‘worms’.
We wonder how far away our voices can be heard and if the robin, in particular, recognises that it’s us and not other humans. There have been times, walking up the driveway shared with the neighbours, when we’ve been chatting away and look up to see the robin staring at us from the big gates that lead into our place. The way robin sits there looking at us, looks almost like it’s showing off and we find only when in company with others do we remember how tiny robins are. They somehow seem bigger when there are just the two of you.
It’s written that wild parrots in Australia are picking up phrases learned from escapee parrots, whilst starlings in the UK are known for being gifted mimics, so it doesn’t surprise me that the birds now recognise the word ‘worms’. Teaching the birds the melody to Beethoven’s ‘Ode to Joy’ by whistling it daily, as Karl would like to do, might be too much but it is heartening to see that the birds appear to recognise something said to them. This is a current favourite performance of the ‘Ode to Joy‘. I love the way the faces of the audience show their delight at the unexpected music and the chorus is sung so powerfully it makes me want to weep. Unexpected music, whether from birds or humans deserves an ode to joy.