144 Bird - Lore 



With a dive out the window she went after Johnny, — and she got him! — brought 

 him in, not to investigate, but, after the manner of her sex, to show him the 

 location of their home and tell him to get busy! He approved, of course, 

 and the building began at once. 



If human beings had the energy of Wrens, and it was all directed, as is a 

 Wren's, towards home-making, I wonder if a League of Nations would be 

 necessary. 



It tired me to watch their furious activity. By night, the shelf was full of 

 sticks, strings, grasses, feathers iarge and small from the poultry-yard, — and 

 hair ! Their manner of procuring that hair was a wee bit like a nation seeing 

 a fine harbor or a stretch of land rich in minerals, saying, "I need that harbor, 

 or that land," and proceeds to take it whether the owner likes it or no. Jenny 

 grew bold as the day advanced and gathered material from the room for this 

 famous nest. Seeing a hair braid on the dresser, she tried to take it to the 

 nest. It was too heavy. She pulled separate hairs, got her feet tangled, fell 

 over the edge of the dresser in comical confusion, called the best she could 

 from her wrapping for Johnny, who came, but was terrified at the predicament 

 of his mate, and could do nothing but utter loud shrieks while Jenny rolled, 

 tugged, feebly flapped her strong wings until she extricated herself. Then, 

 womanlike, she made a dash at Johnny, hit him a powerful blow, and he fled — 

 but she did not. This man-made thing baffled and angered her, and she was 

 resolute to possess it. Back and forth she jerked it, this way and that, but the 

 hair held fast. She stood on it and pulled, fell over, attacked it again and 

 again, and her eyes grew vicious as she remembered how easily she had secured 

 the nice long sorrel and white hairs off fence-rails and thorn bushes. For half 

 an hour she stubbornly held to her task, and succeeded in breaking off a few 

 ends, leaving the braid on the floor much the worse for her encounter with it. 



In a few days the small hole in the center of all this rubbish was rounded 

 and padded, and Mrs. Jenny became quiet long enough each morning to lay 

 a small, speckled egg, until seven were there, packed on end so close one could 

 not be moved without moving all. Then, the miracle. Her restless, quivering, 

 little body grew motionless with a great mother yearning as she hovered over 

 the chocolate-splotched eggs. This was Johnny's Great Opportunity, and he 

 met it squarely. Every hour of the day, inside the room, or nearby on a tree, 

 his song could be heard. His wliil-ly-ycr, whit-ty-yer } was a pathetic inquiry, 

 while the usually far-carrying trill was softened and anxious. There was an 

 elbow in the stovepipe in the room (for there were cool days occasionally), 

 and on this he would perch and sing. One morning he gave his concert from 

 the same pillow I was using. 



Poets poetize over the devotion of the Cardinal to his beautiful mate. The 

 amorous Doves are the apotheosis of Romantic Affection, but Johnny Wren 

 is as ardent as either and as constant. Her nervous nature keeps her close to 

 the nest; his loyal love keeps him close to her. 



