+*- ae 
IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 89 
winter wren should have chosen haunts so ex- 
tremely diverse, — the one preferring door-yards 
in thickly settled villages, the other keeping 
strictly to the wildest of all wild places. But 
whatever the explanation, we need not wish the 
fact itself different. Comparatively few ever 
hear the winter wren’s song, to be sure (for 
you will hardly get it from a hotel piazza), but 
it is not the less enjoyed on that account. 
There is such a thing as a bird’s making him- 
self too common; and probably it is true even of 
the great prima donna that it is not those who 
live in the house with her who find most pleas- 
ure in her music. Moreover, there is much in 
time and circumstance. You hear a song in 
the village street, and pass along unmoved; but 
stand in the silence of the forest, with your feet 
in a bed of creeping snowberry and oxalis, and 
the same song goes to your very soul. 
The great distinction of the winter wren’s 
melody is its marked rhythm and accent, which 
give it a martial, fife-like character. Note 
tumbles over note in the true wren manner, and 
the strain comes to an end so suddenly that for 
the first few times you are likely to think that 
the bird has been interrupted. In the middle 
is a long in-drawn note, much like one of the 
eanary’s. The odd little creature does not get 
far away from the ground. I have never seen 
