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One of my late mother’s more endearing qualities was her boundless love for all things that crawl, fly, or swim upon the earth. She took it as her civic duty as a country resident to ensure that any ill, injured or incapacitated creature that dragged itself to her door was nursed back to health. Over the years, that dedication led to some interesting house guests, both invited and un-. We had a bowl of frog spawn one year and mother guided us through the amazing metamorphosis that turned a handful of glorp into fifteen tiny hopping creatures. I brought home an injured garter snake one Sunday after church and discovered that a) snakes are useful creatures to have in your garden and b) snakes have nervous bowels and the contents cannot be washed away for many, many hours.

Summer always brought a procession of baby birds, too soon out of their nests. Most of the time Mother was able to return the baby to its proper place with the aid the right tool—a soup ladle, if the nest were fairly close to the ground, or sometimes the firetongs, carefully padded with potholders. Occasionally she or I would have to scramble up a tree to get close enough to return the baby to its nest. If it were nearly fledged, it was usually best just to place the bird on a branch as near as possible to the nest, and well away from passing predators.

Mother was known around town as not only a registered nurse for humans, but also a hands-on animal carer. Several times a year some hapless bird or beast was brought to our door with the question “Is this where the animal lady lives?”

One year I rescued a baby robin from the middle of Elm Street just as two boys on bicycles were bearing down on it with no good intent. I carried this handful of gaping mouth and pinfeathers home to Mother. She wasn’t completely thrilled, having just recovered from a snapping turtle houseguest who’d been rehabilitated and returned to the wild not long before. The little bird opened its bright orange mouth and screamed “Geep, geep, geep” at Mother. She sighed and accepted the noisy infant. “Go get the old parakeet cage out of the barn loft,” she instructed.

I hosed off the cage, which still showed signs of its last inhabitant. I brought it into the kitchen, where Mother was stuffing the gaping maw with her patented baby bird food---brown bread soaked in warm milk with a dash of brandy, formed into small vermiforms. I don’t know if this diet is what vets recommend for orphan robins, but I do know we had the happiest baby bird in town for some days.

As soon as possible the bird was weaned onto a diet of worms. These had to be captured in the dead of night when they came to the surface of the lawn, since we humans lacked the skill and dexterity—not to mention the beaks—of the bird’s natural mother. My father, and no doubt the neighbours, thought Mom and I were daft—crawling around on dew-damp grass on all fours with a flashlight and a soup bowl, ambushing worms. Most of the worms in our lawn were night-crawlers, those big, feisty worms that are much too large for a baby bird. The worms had to be minced into six or more segments, a task requiring the stomach of a camel. A segment—still wiggling—would be pushed into the ravening orange maw with Mother’s surgical tweezers, and this process would continue until the baby was sated.

Robin Red Breast, as he was known—I know, I know, but it isn’t as if he would answer to his name anyway—found the care and feeding he was getting to be very much to his liking. He settled into the family as if he never planned to leave. We soon found out that he didn’t.

As the summer wore on Mother decided if was time the little bird learned to fly. Picture this: a grown woman, perched on a tree-branch, flapping her arms and telling a small bird, “Come on, now, there’s nothing to it—millions do it every day.”

Mother must be given her share of the credit—she never once fell off the branch, which is more than I can say for Robin. He fell off with alarming regularity, causing concern that there might be some physiological problem.

“That’s not a bird, that’s feathered sponge,” said my father, who enjoyed poking fun at the admittedly plump small creature. “Why would he want to fly away when he’s getting three square meals and a fancy cage to live in?” Concerned, Mother took Robin to the vet, who checked him over and laughed. “What is it, is he ill, is something broken?” Mother demanded.

“He’s fat,” said the vet. “Maybe don’t feed him as often.?”

Robin couldn’t even catch his own worms—or wouldn’t. After all, why wear out your beak then the nice lady is willing to shovel up most of the compost heap to find lunch for you? He’d sit on her shoulder and then pounce with cries of delight when she turned up some particularly tasty morsel. Robin got fatter and mother got thinner . Robin didn’t confine his menu to worms and beetles—he’d have a go at any human food he found lying around. Salad, raisins, chocolate cake—anything was fair game.

Finally, in mid-September, Father pointed out that almost all the other birds in the yard had departed for warmer climes, and if  Mother ever expected to be rid of her charge, she’d have to take drastic steps at once.

So the next afternoon, accompanied by two sniffling daughters, Mother carried the parakeet cage way down into Aunt Ella’s Woods, as the stand of trees across the road was known. Trudging back with the empty cage, we wondered how Robin would manage on his own, and if we’d ever see him again.

No worries there—Robin was sitting on the porch rail, chortling happily, as we came up the driveway. Next day we tried again—this time Mother drove Robin to the far side of the woods before letting him go. She got home to find Robin having a bath in the water bowl she left out for the cats.

In desperation we drove Robin to the far end of town, a good four miles from our home. Robin sensed something was up and refused to exit the cage. Mother grasped him firmly and pushed his grasping toes around a branch in a small bush. “Go and be a proper bird, Robin. You can’t live in a parakeet cage forever. Be brave, be free!”

We ran for the car and rolled up the windows. Mother drove a touch faster than the posted limit until we were out of sight.

The following April a large glossy robin hopped up our front walk, chirped a few times, and announced he was ready for the parakeet cage again. He was very tame and friendly and of course we were sure it was our Robin.

Mother took the garden fork out to the compost heap and turned over a few clods so that Robin could have an easy welcome-home meal.

Robin spent the summer in our orchard, with a pert little lady robin and they raised five healthy babies. We like to think it’s a credit to Mother’s early tutelage that all five learned to fly early and well.