i6



Mr. R. Philupps,



certain fair damsel, hitherto referred to in these pages as the

Spinster Aunt, who, when last seen, was bounding about on the

top of the aviary, and had suddenly and mysteriously dis¬

appeared ? Is this then the secret of the reputed polygamy of the

Blue Wren ? Is it his custom, after nesting with one wife, to

hand all care of the young brood, when fairly independent, over

to her, and himself to start afresh with Spinster Aunt No. 2, and

so on until he has reared a brood by all of the three or four

Spinster Aunts, one after the other in due order and succession ?

Small wonder that the number of the latter is limited to four ! ! !


These little birds are always on the move. Like Fidgety

Phil, they can’t sit still; and the colours of the old Bluebeard

are so bright that one can usually detect him in a moment. But,

on the 9th of August, not one moment but many passed, and the

moments developed into minutes, and the minutes into hours,

but 110 Fidgety Phil! ! ! In vain I scanned the aviary, in vain

I mounted to the higher windows of the house and searched the

neighbouring gardens with my eyes, but no glint of his bright

blue jacket rewarded my efforts. Nevertheless I felt pretty sure

that, if not caught nor killed, he would turn up before long—

and towards mid-day he was on the top of the aviary. It will be

remembered that the Spinster Aunt had been taken into the

house a short time previously. As quickly as possible I clapped

her into a cage-trap, let the trap down from a window 011 to the

top of the aviary—and before one could say “Jack Robinson”

Fidgety Phil was a prisoner and was safe in the house. Perhaps

unwisely, but fearful of further escapes, and not unmindful ot

the cold and wet, I caught up likewise the mother and child;

and the four birds have since been living together in a six-foot

cage in my dining-room.


I do not know what to say about the song of the Blue Wren.

They have several little twittering call-notes. In addition, a

little rippling twittering song is occasionally uttered, certainly

sometimes by the female, but I cannot say that it ever comes

from the male. It is an insignificant little song, bearing a

family resemblance to that of our own little Jenny Wren but

inferior to it. While the birds were in the garden, I occasionally

thought I detected, amidst the babel of many voices, a better



