40 AMERICAN ORNITHOLOGY. 



THE INCONSTANCY OF MOTHER WREN. 



Fine feathers do really make fine birds, according to the ethics of one little 

 brown Wren. Early in the spring a pair of those musical birds selected a 

 lilac bush close to my study window and began to build their summer home. 



Everything, seemingly, went merry as a marriage bell. Both birds worked 

 upon the nest building and one speckled egg had been laid when one day a 

 village boy possessed himself of an air gun, and anxious to show his prowess 

 as a hunter, went out one morning to war upon the birds. Mr. Benedict 

 Wren was among the victims, but luckily escaped with his life. He had, 

 however, lost the greater part of his beautiful tail. 



Returning to the lilac tree, he gazed ruefully at his loss and tried in vain 

 to arrange his remaining plumage in such a way as to conceal his lack of 

 feathers. 



While in the midst of his toilet Mrs. Wren returned to the nest. She eyed 

 her spouse suspiciously, while he evidently tried to tell her of his sad mis- 

 fortune and narrow escape. Presto ! what a change ! Instead of offering 

 consolation and sympathy, Mother Wren became violently angry and re- 

 fused to accept any attention at all from her dismantled spouse. In vain he 

 tried to appease her anger. He sang his sweetest song, he brought her a 

 delicious worm, but every moment the little dame became more and more ex- 

 asperated. At last, in high dudgeon, she flew oft' to some neighboring bushes 

 and returned not again, leaving her disconsolate spouse, the nest and the one 

 egg to fate. A few days after, I saw not far away, a new nest begun and 

 learned the little bird had taken a new mate. I knew it must be she for on 

 a bough not many feet away sat the forsaken mate, uttering now and then a 

 plaintive chirp, but keeping an ever watchful eye upon his successful rival, 

 who was now so busily attentive to Madam Wren. The nesting went on to 

 completion. A brood of five were reared and a second one of three the same 

 summer. 



The poor little cast-off did not long repine. In less than a week he re- 

 turned to his favorite perch upon the lilac tree. The tree was then bursting 

 into bloom. He would sit there hour by hour pouring out melody and sweet- 

 ness as if to rival the beauty and fragrance around him. In time the missing 

 plumage was replaced by new feathers. Indeed, his fall coat lacked but 

 little the beauty of his spring attire. Long after the other birds had flown 

 the little Wren kept his sad tryst in the lilac tree. I sometimes feared I 

 should some morning find him frozen stiff on his perch, but one November 

 morning I missed him and I thought I had seen the last of my little friend. 

 but lo! early one morning the following March, just a few days after I had 

 heard the Blue-birds and Robins for the first time, I heard a sweet warble 

 in the old lilac bush. Looking out I recognized my old friend of last sum- 



