Robin and Son

In one particular robin flock there was a female who was truly loyal and faithful to the mate she had picked years before. It was a sort of scandal to be so male-bonded in a group that was utterly liberal and would never show the slightest disapproval of normal social strayers from the nest. Not that she showed off in any manner but was, simply, devoted and content. And it had been the same for him in a prior mating, where his partner never once went off, until she died.

What did he have that kept his females so devoted? Don’t say sex because robins don’t delude themselves with unique details of capacity, any startling disparities in coital competence. They know about the general parity of masculine performance. One male is as strong or as brave as another, no special fame inherent. Was it exceptional good-looks? No. He had no extraordinary orange in his broad expanse of chest, no luminous crimson more luminous than the next. No, something else was involved in this robin’s hold on his steadfast, immovable mates.

No one in that flock ever learned his secret except his breast-bespeckled son when the fledgling took his turn to fly to other skies and be gone.

           

“I’m going to tell you how to keep a female close,” robin said, “and it has nothing to do with annually renewing vows.”

            
“Is it that you never beat, pecked or abused her?”

            
“No. What a wicked, shameful human attitude that is! We are on a higher plane than that, not just in altitude. Listen: Anytime a mate asks you anything, answer right away, no matter what it is. Never hem or haw, just say.”

            
“It doesn’t matter if you’re right or wrong?”

            
“No! It matters if you’re wishy-washy, lame in reply, or in-between. The chiefest male shame has always been not to decide. It puts his partner in a nervous state Now, here’s a short quiz: the question is hers, the answer his. ‘You think, my sweetling, there are worms in this lawn?’”

            
“Maybe—”

            
“Don’t say ‘maybe’! Or ‘I don’t know’! Say, ‘Over yonder’ or ‘the garden’ or, better ‘Yes!’ or ‘No!’ She craves prompt, manly decision. Get that into your pinfeathered head. Listen: half the time a female asks a question she’s already given herself a provisional answer. Or she’s narrowed it down to two suggestions, one as good as the other, in final analysis. Pay attention to how her query is phrased, it’ll indicate where she wants you to go. But a mistake doesn’t strictly matter, only a male’s blundering chatter or, what’s worse, his tongue-tied dumb paralysis. What soothes and secures her, is certitude—definite, unreserved masculine certainty. It’s never the answer itself but the manner, the man-in-the-manner.”

           
“Even if you lie?”

            
“It’s never a lie, it’s straightforward improvisation. You can be endlessly wrong, but stay incisive, she’d rather you wrong than undecided. Now, are you ready for another matrimonial test? Good: she asks, ‘Shall we build our nest on this tree or that?’ And you reply—?”

            
“It depends.”

            
“No! The answer is ‘Here!’ or the answer is ‘There!’ She has probably seen, scouted and then has settled on these two sites she is now proposing. You are merely disposing of her sifted ideas. She won’t be nettled any way you come down. Ready for another test? She says, ‘Oh, my speckled lovely Bright Breast, when are we migrating?’”

            
“Soon.”

            
“Well, you’ve got it down to one crisp word. ‘Noon’ would have been better. Again: ‘Must we feed our nestlings one more bite?’”

            
“No.”

            
“Very good. All the more if she asks as night falls. And furthermore, did you understand, if she’s asking a question like that, she doesn’t want to do it? I hope so. These are the traits you have to foster: subtlety added to normal gall. Now you know as much as I.”

            
His fledgling winged into the skies, all set to go in life.

Moral:             Robin or man, it is too risky here to moralize.