A WOOD WREN AT WELLS 109 



fall from my lips. Said I, " There is one thing 

 you can boast of in Lynton. So far as I know, 

 it is the only town in the country where, sitting 

 in your own room with the windows open, you can 

 listen to the song of the wood wren." Her face 

 fell. She had never heard of the wood wren, and 

 when I pointed to the tree from which the sound 

 came and she listened and heard, she turned aw^ay, 

 evidently too disgusted to say anything. She had 

 been wasting her eloquence on an unworthy sub- 

 ject — one who was without appreciation for the 

 sublime and beautiful in nature. The wild romantic 

 Lynn, tumbling with noise and foam over its rough 

 stony bed, the vast wooded hills, the piled-up 

 black rocks (covered in places with beautiful red 

 and blue lettered advertisements), had been passed 

 by in silence — nothing had stirred me but the 

 chirping of a miserable little bird, which, for 

 all that she knew or cared, might be a sparrow ! 

 When we got down from the coach a couple of 

 minutes later, she walked away without even 

 saying good-bye. 



There is no doubt that very many persons know 

 and care as little about bird voices as this lady ; 

 but how about the others who do know and care 

 a good deal — what do they think and feel about 



