Disturb a robin's nest, go to jail?

We have a robin's nest in our gazebo, with three little chicks. Their greedy little beaks are open all the time, waiting for grub. (Literally.) We've watched them since the day they started building their home, undaunted by interest rates, and we've become rather attached to them.

I wish them well. My wife frets about them to the point where I think she wants to set up a college fund for the chicks.

"I think they've bonded with us," she said. "They accept our presence here."

"I think it's more likely they're stupid. No offense, Bob," I said to the male in the nest, who gave no indication he had been wounded by the remark. "They're basically machines. Now, corvids, those are smart. A crow not only recognizes faces but can memorize up to six Social Security numbers and use them in complex financial frauds. These guys have the IQ of wind-up toys."

Let us say we agreed to disagree on that one.

At some point she wondered if it was the robin she had rescued from death. A month ago she found a robin in the backyard, hopping intermittently, unable to fly. When she approached, she saw that it had been impaled by a thin stick. Perhaps it was swooping down to get some food, hadn't seen the thin, sharp stalk and now it had a 12-inch spear embedded in its torso. She pulled it out.

"You are now the Queen of All Robins," I said. "It is their way. It has been prophesied that a beautiful maiden will pull the stick from the Robin Prince, and the kingdom will be in harmony ever after."

It hopped around for a while, and when she went to the backyard half an hour later, it was gone. So it's possible it was one of those self-sealing robins, and indeed has chosen to bring up its young here to honor the Queen.

Or a hawk got it.

Anyway, she read about robins and learned that the chicks might hop out of the nest after 10 days but won't be able to get back because they don't fly for another 10. Should that happen, we have gloves on the table outside so we can put them back in the nest and not catch any bird cooties.

"I worry that the mother isn't getting any sleep," my wife said. "She stays awake guarding them, she goes and gets food — when does she sleep? And the male, what does he do? He empties the dishwasher and thinks that's 'housework.'''

Other things we learned: The nest is federally protected, under the 1918 Migratory Bird Treaty Act. We signed a treaty with birds? I'm guessing their lobbyists worked pro bono, or were paid with worms.

Because of this law, you need a government permit to remove the nest if it's in a bad place, such as "an outdoor grill." Sorry, can't make burgers this month, I'm waiting for a federal indemnity waiver.

So these guys can come into my gazebo, squat, brood, poop and decamp, and not only have I no say in the matter, but I have to gargle with bleach when I clean up their mess. It's such an imposition.

Aside from the charming sight of the helpless and happy little heads fed by their diligent parents, the ordinary evidence of nature's deeply coded plans, the mystery of bonded birds working together and a reminder of the great parade of ever-renewing life all around us, a memory to carry into the dead pit of winter, what do I get out of this?