Cedar Farm and Two Wrens 145 



One morning he did not sing. There was a hurrying in and out the window, 

 and, peering close to the nest, I saw a bundle of bones, hairless and damp, 

 huge mouths and blind eyes! But how beautiful they were to Johnny and 

 Jenny ! A tax was levied on every bush that held a worm, and from dawn until 

 the evening insects shrilled their tiny horns, this tax was collected. 



On a memorable day, seven helpless, sullen-mouthed, heavy-eyed birds sat 

 on the floor, pictures, chair, bed, anywhere, while father and mother called, 

 coaxed, and threatened them to try their wings and come to the garden. It 

 took two hours to get them out in the plum tree. One by one they flew, hopped, 

 and crept to the garden — and I saw them no more ! 



Two weeks later I found Mrs. Jenny investigating a school desk on the 

 south porch. A repetition of the same homely drama followed: Johnny liked 

 it perforce, the nest was built, the eggs laid, but someone unfortunately touched 

 them and this new home was abandoned. 



A few days later I saw Mrs. Jenny dash impetuously into the wash-house 

 and followed her. An empty paint-bucket, hung near the door, was her choice 

 this time, and its brown wrinkled interior was cleverly concealed by the huge 

 nest. Once more were the mystic seven eggs laid, close together, and once 

 more was the old, old tragedy enacted — for birth is a tragedy. Not only were 

 worms plentiful, for it was July now, but also the small, luscious fruits of the 

 garden were abundant. For days I watched this little family grow. Jenny 

 knew which one had been fed last, and if it thrust its long, thin neck and yel- 

 low mouth up too high, she would chastise it with a stroke of her bill that I 

 know must have hurt. The day she made them leave the nest, I tried to help, 

 but succeeded only in scaring and scattering them. An hour or so after I left 

 them, the friendly plum tree held them and then the garden ! Snakes and Hawks 

 were in that garden, and I tried not to think of those fourteen baby Wrens 

 that had gone to live in it. 



Evidently Mrs. Jenny believed in the husband looking after the children, 

 for shortly after she was endeavoring to reach her first nest through the window, 

 but it was screened now and she had recourse to the paint-bucket. This time 

 only four eggs, four birds, the handy plum tree, the garden that drew them 

 like an octopus, and her season's work was done, for autumn's yellow sere had 

 fallen on the meadows, banks, ravines, and hills. Eighteen little Wrens were 

 mothered by this tiny bird in one summer. She knew the number when they 

 left the nest. But did she remember when they reached the garden? She is a 

 rebuke to those who believe race suicide beneficial, and Johnny lives true to 

 the tradition of the patriarchal father at the head of the tribe. 



