196 WAKE-ROBIN 



quently come into collision. A few years ago I 

 put lip a little bird-house in the back end of my 

 garden for the accommodation of the wrens, and 

 every season a pair have taken up their abode there. 

 One spring a pair of bluebirds looked into the tene- 

 ment and lingered about several days, leading me 

 to hope that they would conclude to occupy it. 

 But they finally went away, and later in the season 

 the wrens appeared, and, after a little coquetting, 

 were regularly installed in their old quarters and 

 were as happy as only wrens can be. 



One of our younger poets, Myron Benton, saw a 

 little bird 



"Ruffled with whirlwind of his ecstasies," 



which must have been the wren, as I know of no 

 other bird that so throbs and palpitates with music 

 as this little vagabond. And the pair I speak of 

 seemed exceptionably happy, and the male had a 

 small tornado of song in his crop that kept him 

 "ruffled" every moment in the day. But before 

 their honeymoon was over the bluebirds returned. 

 I knew something was wrong before I was up in 

 the morning. Instead of that voluble and gushing 

 song outside the window, I heard the wrens scold- 

 ing and crying at a fearful rate, and on going out 

 saw the bluebirds in possession of the box. The 

 poor wrens were in despair ; they wrung their hands 

 and tore their hair, after the wren fashion, but 

 chiefly did they rattle out their disgust and wrath 

 at the intruders. I have no doubt that, if it could 



