Our Old-Garden Birds. 139 



Poor house-wren, how I pitied you ! but not so much 

 now as formerly. I have seen more of the world, 

 and it is evident that you have escaped a great 

 deal by forming new associates in the backwoods. 

 You see a better class of mankind than you would 

 have done had you remained where people most 

 do congregate. Now that the mischief is done, 

 there are those who regret the officious activity of 

 ignorance and curse the folly of such an act as 

 the introduction of these worthless sparrows. It 

 were better to annihilate them than to enforce the 

 Monroe doctrine ; but alas ! to do the former is now 

 impossible. 



There are times when some birds would be out 

 of place : crows at a funeral, for instance ; but give 

 me larks at a wedding. We cannot break in upon 

 our established customs without discomfort, and to 

 hear in December what belongs to June, although 

 it may be in a measure musical, yet lacks the proper 

 sweetness. A bird's song, like many a summer 

 fruit, is not always in season ; and this leads to 

 the question, When is the familiar house-wren's 

 song heard at its best? We hear it for six months 

 of each year, and there is as much animation in the 

 last song as in the first ; but to extract all its charm, 

 to fathom the full meaning of every syllable, I prefer 

 that it break without warning on the stillness of a 

 Sunday afternoon in June. A mere fancy of mine, 

 this, and meaningless, it may be, to others ; but it 

 was then that all was quiet on the farm, even to the 

 restless children ; it was then that the old people 



