98 American Birds 



What a task the father had brought upon himself! 

 Surely the old woman in a shoe never had a more trying 

 time. The fretful father darted away to punish one of 

 the wrenlets for not remaining quiet; he scurried here to 

 scold another for wandering too far, or whirled away to 

 whip a third for not keeping low in the underbrush, away 

 from the hawk's watchful eyes. 



My attention was directed in particular to one little 

 feathered subject who, each time the brown father came 

 back, insisted vociferously that his turn was next. Once 

 in particular, when the camera did not fail to record, papa 

 wren was approaching with a large grub. The wrenlet 

 was all in ecstasy. He was calling, " Papa, papa, the 

 bug is mine! The bug is mine! " fluttering his wings in 

 delight as he hopped to the next limb near the hesitating 

 parent. But the youngster's emphatic appeal failed to 

 persuade the father, for the next instant he deposited the 

 morsel in the mouth of the less boisterous child. What 

 a change in my enthusiastic little friend, who at one mo- 

 ment fairly tasted the dainty bit and the next saw it dis- 

 appear down the throat of a less noisy brother. He stood 

 looking in amazement as his feathers ruffled up in anger 

 and an astonished peep of disgust escaped his throat. 



Another day in the warm sunshine and the wrenlets 

 began to act more like their parents, and to gain rapidly 

 in worldly knowledge. The third morning all was quiet, 

 and I thought the family had departed for other hunting- 

 grounds. Soon, however, the father appeared, and then 

 the mother, scolding as usual. I crawled down under the 

 tall ferns to wait. The parents had taught their children 

 the act of keeping still very well, for not a peep was heard. 



