THE CAROLINA WREN. 219 



Carolina makes himself equally at home almost 

 everywhere. In Audubon Park, New Orleans, 

 frequented by many loiterers and picnickers, 

 he lives a jolly life, rolling his loud minstrelsy 

 through the conservatory of plants and flowers 

 until the echoes dance. He also loves the ceme- 

 teries on the outskirts of the city, where his 

 songs are anything but funereal. One day in 

 April I found a wren's nest in one of the marble 

 vaults. You are to remember that the dead in 

 the Crescent City are not buried under ground, 

 but are placed in vaults erected on the surface, 

 making a cemetery look like a village of small 

 marble cottages. Behind a cross of artificial 

 flowers, gleaming like silver in one of the 

 vaults, the wren's nest was placed. The birds 

 entered the recess through the interstices of an 

 iron door. Had they not been so gay one might 

 have thought their tastes rather sepulchral. 



But here is an odd characteristic of this 

 species. While some individuals are sociable, 

 seeking proximity to man, others seem disposed 

 to make recluses of themselves. My rambles 

 in the South took me to some very lonely, out- 

 of-the-way places. No matter ; Carolina was at 

 hand. I plunged into what seemed to be in- 

 terminable forests, dark and dank, keeping a 

 watchful eye on the sun, lest I should lose 



