156 Bird - Lore 



caught the owner of the castle standing on the corner of the gutter facing his 

 front door, challenge in every line of him. Right here, at this vital juncture of 

 the drama, I had to leave the scene of action. I was gone about two hours, 

 and, upon my return, I found the sod under the Englishman's castle white 

 with feathers, and, could it be, — yes, there actually was a newly hatched dead 

 Sparrow, pitched out during the fight that must have ensued. If I had not 

 heard the aggressive voice proclaiming victory from a nearby tree I would 

 have been worried for fear an awful justice had overtaken him, but I must 

 say his tone was reassuring in the extreme. 



Not knowing the way of Wrens, I interpreted this anti-British campaign 

 as expressing the fact that he had centered his desire for a house on the English- 

 man's property, and at once enlisted my services in his behalf. A man scaled 

 a ladder and evicted this budding, though browbeaten family in the most 

 radical fashion. The apartment was then thoroughly hosed out and a new 

 doorway erected through which only a Wren might pass. Now, will you believe 

 me when I tell you that that fickle, erratic housebreaker showed not the 

 slightest interest in that establishment from that time on? Every time I 

 heard his tea-kettle song in the orchard, I hied me forth to see what his next 

 move would be. Where was Mrs. Wren? Was he a bachelor or widower 

 (grass or plain)? I was obsessed by that Wren and his business, as was my 

 neighbor and friend whose garden joins mine. She reported one day that he 

 had visited her mother as she sat in the open window facing the veranda, had 

 lighted on the back of a chair, raised his head, lowered his tail, and given a 

 perfect demonstration of how the tea-kettle sang to the Cricket on the Hearth. 

 Of course we speculated every day as to where that bird who didn't know his 

 own mind two minutes together would build. 



When my patience was nearly exhausted, it dawned on my intelligence that 

 the Packard Chickadee house on the black walnut tree at the edge of my 

 garden, and only a step from my neighbor's, was displaying a Wren name- 

 plate in the shape of a stout twig placed in the doorway to bar all intruders. 

 Wild excitement in the garden! What a chance to study the nest and the 

 young birds! We saw two Wrens going in with food in their bills and heard 

 the me! me! chorus that day and the day after, and the day after that we 

 found the house deserted by a family big enough to fly away in the early hours. 

 There we were, intrigued, baffled, and cheated by that little play-actor. Will 

 anyone take exception when I say the way of the Wren is deep? 



