258 BIRDS IN TOWN AND VILLAGE 



detraction which yet affects its object; and, feel- 

 ing hurt in his fringilline amour propre, he has 

 all at once taken himself off. Never mind; a 

 better singer has succeeded him. I have heard 

 and seen the little wren a dozen times to-day; now 

 he has come to the upper part of the tree I am 

 lying under, and although so near his voice sounds 

 scarcely louder than before. This is also a lyric, 

 but of another kind. It is not plaintive, nor pas- 

 sionate; nor is it so spontaneous as the warbling 

 of the robin — that most perfect feathered im- 

 pressionist; nor is it endeared to me by early 

 associations since I listened In boyhood to the 

 songs of other wrens. In what, then, does Its 

 charm consist? I do not know. Certainly it Is 

 delicate, and may even be described as brilliant. 

 In Its limited way perfect, and to other greater 

 songs like the small pimpernel to a poppy or 

 a hollyhock. Unambitious, yet finished, it has 

 the charm of distinction. The wren Is the least 

 self-conscious of our singers. Somewhere among 

 the higher green translucent leaves the little 

 brown barred thing is quietly sitting, busy for the 

 nonce about nothing, dreaming his summer dream, 

 and unknowingly telling it aloud. When shall 



