250 BIRDS OF FIELD, FOREST AND PARK 



I get; and at times I almost came to believe 

 him a sprite, a voice without material form. 



Then most unexpectedly, and without effort, 

 I came upon him. Soon after sunrise one morn- 

 ing, while paying my daily visit to a mineral 

 spring that bubbles out of the river bank just 

 below the dam, I heard the song and my heart 

 fairly leaped at the prospect of seeing the singer, 

 for it seemed impossible for him to escape me 

 here. As I breathlessly waited a moment, there 

 came into view, hopping along a projecting 

 limb with a peculiar bobbing motion, a midget 

 in brown, with tail so erect that there was no 

 mistaking him. 



He was the Winter Wren, the dainty minstrel 

 I had so long sought. For a moment he sang for 

 me in plain sight, then flew across the stream. 

 But my search was over and the reward was 

 equal to the protracted effort I had put forth, 

 absolute knowledge gained where there had been 

 so much uncertainty, and so I added a new and 

 highly prized acquaintance to my Hst of bird 

 friends. 



But how shall I describe his marvelous song, 

 it is so different from all others! There is a 

 quality about it, a certain spirit of the wild, that 

 suggests the song of the Ruby-crowned Kinglet, 

 but, after all, the resemblance is slight. The 

 song of the Winter Wren is like a cascade of pure 

 liquid notes gurgling and tumbling forth as 

 though the tiny mite, in utter abandon, were 

 intoxicated with the ecstasy of his own melody. 

 In the variety of the notes the song is to me incom- 

 parable. And from such a midget ! One old guide 



