34 A-BIRDING ON A BRONCO. 



One day as one of the old birds stood in the 

 doorway its mate flew into the nest right over its 

 head. The astonished doorkeeper was so startled 

 that it took to its wings. 



Before this, in watching the wrens, I had 

 looked off across a sunny field of golden oats, 

 against the background of blue hills. On June 

 14, when I went to the nest, the mowers had been 

 at work around the sycamores and the oat-field 

 was full of cocks. Just as the wren was most 

 anxious for peace and quietness, for a safe world 

 into which to launch her brood, up came this rout 

 of haymakers with all their clattering machines, 

 laying low the meadows to her very door. 



No wonder the little bird met me with nerves 

 on edge. When the eggs had first hatched, she 

 had objected to me, but mildly. To be sure, once 

 when she found me staring she flew away over my 

 head, scolding as much as to say, " Stop looking 

 at my little birds," and finding me there when 

 she came back, shook her wings at her sides and 

 scolded hard, though her bill was full ; but still 

 her disapproval did not trouble me ; it was too 

 sociable. But now, for some time, affected by 

 the shadow of coming events, she had been grow- 

 ing more and more fidgety under my gaze, darting 

 inside, then whisking back to the door to look at 

 me, in again to her brood and out to me, over and 

 over like a flash — or, like a poor little troubled 

 mother wren, distracted lest her unruly youngsters 



