Cedar Farm and Two Wrens 



By ANNA ROGERS ROBERTS. Marietta. Ohio 



CEDAR FARM is like, yet very unlike, other farms. The same hills, 

 the same creek, the same meadows, and the same dark green and vivid 

 yellow banks, the same ravines and wild life — yet different. An undefin- 

 able charm envelopes the quaint setting of house, lawn, and garden, of outlying 

 buildings, orchards, and pastures. The front of the house faces uphill, and the 

 red, red road may be seen like a long streamer trailed in the hands of an angry 

 child who jerks it here and there wantonly. The back of the house is turned 

 toward a large meadow; just beyond are the lumpish banks, the lazy water, 

 and the low hills. Enormous trees — elm, oak, beech, walnut, chestnut, and 

 mulberry — stand, sometimes singly, often in groups. 



A birds' paradise is Cedar Farm, and right well they know it, for the 

 owners find in their daily care of the feathered folk the reward of their friend- 

 ship, faith, and yearly presence. The homemade devices for feeding and 

 watering the birds, which are seen in unexpected places, are usually crowded 

 in winter and not wholly abandoned in summer. The shy wanderers soon 

 learn that homes b tilt on Cedar Farm are safely rheltered. 



So two Wrens found it, and here follows an account of their activities: 



It was in April. Roads were miry, hillsides were sodden, meadows were 

 swampy, but each day the sun drew new, pungent odors from the soil, and a 

 green haze enveloped trees and vines. 



My room in the large, comfortable farmhouse, was a clean, cool one, with 

 walls, ceilings, and floors of oak, homemade rugs, white muslin curtains over 

 small deep windows, and furniture of one or more generations ago. Prints of 

 famous pictures and photographs of noted places hung low in the alcoves, and 

 a set of shelves held books carefully selected by the five sisters who lived in 

 this questioning house, for it ever asked, "Won't you come in and rest?" 

 When the invitation was accepted, evidences of a culture only possible to those 

 in love with Nature were abundant. 



I had had a long tramp the day before I met my Wrens. I found the spring 

 migration well advanced. Birds were busy exploring former homes and find- 

 ing sites for new ones. Not an unanswered mating call rang through the woods, 

 a call unchanged through the ages, yet warming the heart, as it sensed the 

 honest, reckless passion throbbing in every note. 



I had retired early and slept late, and that, to Mrs. Jenny, was an unwise 

 thing to do on this wonderful spring morning. Open windows piqued her 

 curiosity, and, seeing no movement, she entered and perched herself on the 

 footboard of the bed on which I was lying. She flew to a small shelf enclosed 

 at both ends and vacant, but for a few bottles at one side. Carefully she 

 scrutinized every inch of this shelf, and then her bright eyes snapped decision. 

 Her impersonal air of yesterday became one of intense self-consciousness today. 



(143) 



