[Buddy Harrison]

As an unrepentant robin slayer, I can vividly recall occasions in my youth in the mid-1950's when my father and I would shoulder our Winchester Model 67 single shot .22's and head for the nearby woods where several large holly trees were loaded with succulent red berries that the migrant robins loved dearly. This was in the late fall when the transient "yankee" birds had arrived. We each carried a box of .22 shorts to keep the noise down to keep from spooking the birds and to avoid discovery from the local game warden. After making a makeshift blind we would begin collecting what was necessary to make a good meal for my family of five (usually 25-30) birds. Dad and I would clean the birds and Mom would cook, usually fry, the robin breasts. As best I recall they had a taste similar to doves. On other occasions we would ambush enough for supper from a chinaberry tree in my grandmother's yard. By that time of year the chinaberries had mostly dried, soured and shriveled which for some reason the robins couldn't resist. Once my father swallowed a robin bone and it scratched his throat. He was convinced it was lodged in his throat so off to the local doctor we went. When my Dad related what his problem was to the doctor, with a chuckle he said, "Now I've heard it all."