316 
‘THE ROCK WREN. 
of the Cascades, chiefly confined to cliffs of Columbian lava; casual west of the 
Cascades. 
Authorities.—[“Rock wren,” Johnson, Rep. Gov. W. T. 1884 (1885), p. 22.] 
Lawrence Auk, WXCniso2n Ar eeG 7. le ee) ZnS Sten Sa lcs 
Specimens.—P. C. 
“BUT Barrenness, Loneliness, such-like things, 
That gall and grate on the White Man’s nerves, 
Was the rangers that camped by the bitter springs 
And guarded the lines of God’s reserves. 
So the folks all shy from the desert land, 
’Cept mebbe a few that kin understand.”—Clark. 
A discerning soul is Salpinctes. He loves beyond all else the uplifted 
ramparts of basalt, the bare lean battlements of the wilderness. They are 
the walls of a sanctuary, where he is both verger and choir master, while 
upon the scarred altars which they shelter, his faithful spouse has a place 
“where she may lay her young.” 
The Rock Wren is nestled among the most impressive surroundings, but 
there is nothing subdued or melancholy about his bearing. Indeed, he has 
taken a commission to wake the old hills and to keep the shades of eld from 
brooding too heavily upon them. His song is, therefore, one of the spright- 
liest, most musical, and resonant to be heard in the entire West. The rock- 
wall makes an admirable sounding-board, and the bird stops midway of what- 
ever task to sing a hymn of wildest exultation. [Vhittier, whittier, whitter, 
is one of his finest strains; while ka-whee, ka-whee, ka-whee is a sort of chal- 
lenge which the bird renders in various tempo, and punctuates with nervous 
bobs to enforce attention. For the rest his notes are too varied, spontaneous, 
and untrammeled to admit of precise description. 
Save in the vicinity of his nest, the Rock Wren is rather an elusive 
sprite. If you clamber to his haunts he will remove, as matter of course, a 
hundred yards along the cliff; or he will flit across the couleé with a noncha- 
lance which discourages further effort. Left to himself, however, he may 
whimsically return—near enough perhaps for you to catch the click, click 
of his tiny claws as he goes over the lava blocks, poking into crevices after 
spiders here, nibbling larvee in vapor holes there, or scaling sheer heights 
yonder, without a thought of vertigo. 
At nesting time the cliffs present a thousand chinks and hidey-holes, any 
one of which would do to put a nest in. The collector is likely to be dismayed 
at the wealth of possibilities before him, and the birds themselves appear to 
regret that they must make choice of a single cranny, for they “fix up” half a 
