96 American Birds 



For some reason the father stormed and scolded more 

 than usual at my next visit. He seemed out of sorts about 

 everything. The rating I got was not very much more 

 severe than the little wretch gave his wife when she re- 

 turned each time with morsels of food. Something was 

 very far wrong. It could not be that his mate did not 

 search hard enough for food or bring enough back. With 

 all his faultfinding, he never once offered to relieve his 

 faithful wife. 



Hidden in the grass, I tried to solve the secret of the 

 father's pettish actions. Each time the patient mother re- 

 turned he grew more restless and violent in his language. 

 Soon I saw his wife whirl joyously by with an unusually 

 large white grub — surely a prize for any bird. But, alas 1 

 For all her prowess her spouse darted at her as if in 

 madness, while she, trembling in terror, retreated down the 

 limb and through the bushes. For a few moments it 

 seemed as if the wren household was to be wrecked. I 

 was tempted to take the mother's part against such cruel 

 treatment, as she quivered through the fern on fluttering 

 wing toward me, but at that moment, as if thoroughly sub- 

 dued, she yielded up the bug to the father. This was the 

 bone of contention. A domestic battle had been fought, 

 and he had won. The scolding ceased. Both seemed sat- 

 isfied. Mounting to the tree-top, the little mother poured 

 forth such a flood of sweet song as rarely strikes human 

 ear. From that moment she seemed a different wren, re- 

 leased from all care and worry. Her entire time was spent 

 In search for bugs. Each return was heralded by the high- 

 sounding trill from the tree-top, and her husband whirled 

 out of the tangled vines to take the morsel she carried. 



