WHERE THE WRENS BUILT. 



I think I must tell you about our Wren's 

 nest. It was something more than a 

 dozen years ago when my husband had 

 an office down town, with sheds and out- 

 buildings adjoining, and sold farm ma- 

 chinery. The little Wren I have in mind 

 chose the hollow center of a ball of binder 

 twine for her home, and having partially 

 filled it with numerous odds and ends 

 dear to her heart, proceeded to lay her 

 tiny eggs and sit upon them. 



Now this particular ball of binder 

 twine was situated in the twine box of 

 a sample binder, which was set up ready 

 for work in a shed fronting the street. 

 Here day after day my husband was 

 called upon to show off the various good 

 points of the machine to would-be pur- 

 chasers. Not being in the field, and there 

 being therefore no grain to cut and bind, 

 the ball of twine was not molested, but 

 other parts of the machine were raised 

 and lowered and otherwise moved about 

 with an amount of noise quite terrifying 

 to the wee sitter upon the nest. 



Sometimes she so far mastered her 

 fear as to quietly sit through the ordeal, 

 the motion of her shining eyes alone re- 

 vealing her temerity, but usually she 

 found this too much for the state of her* 

 nerves, and flew off the nest, fluttering 

 about with her faithful little mate who 

 was always on hand to reassure her, and 

 whose angry chirps mingled with hers as 

 she scolded my poor husband for his per- 

 sistent interference with her maternal 

 duties, in a way quite heartrending to 

 hear. 



not 

 very 



and 

 little 



Just before harvest when the little 

 birds were hatched and nearly ready to 

 fly, the binder was sold. There was no 

 alternative as it was the last of the kind 

 and the purchaser would take no other. 

 My husband, whose sympathies had been 

 with the. little mother from the first, 

 though she, poor dear, could 

 be persuaded to think so, felt 

 much disturbed over the aft"air 

 hoped against hope that the 

 ones would fly away before time for the 

 machine to be removed, but they were 

 still snugly tucked down in their unique 

 bed when the eventful day arrived. Care- 

 fully opening the door of the twine box 

 he lifted the ball and placed it tenderly 

 in a secure place within sight of the in- 

 dignant parents, who were flying wildly 

 about, uttering the most plaintive, if also 

 the most angry, of bird cries. 



The little family, in no wise injured 

 by the move, continued to reside in the 

 ball of twine until the birdlings — there 

 were seven of them — were strong enough 

 to leave it for "the great, wide, beau- 

 tiful, wonderful world." To the day 

 of their final departure, however, the 

 mother Wren never forgave my husband 

 for his part in the transaction. She 

 seemed ill at ease the moment he ap- 

 peared and invariably scolded him with- 

 out intermission whenever he was in 

 sight, which returns for his friendship 

 and oversight he found rather amusing 

 than otherwise, since his conscience was 

 clear and, despite her indignant protest, 

 the birds throve happily all the while. 

 Gazelle Stevens Sharp, 



THE HERON'S NEST. 



The Heron builds her nest in the tall pine. 



That rises high, a watch-tower in the land, — 

 The while her mate, by stream or crystal pool, 



Stands, mute and listening, warder of the strand. 



— Ella F. Mosby. 



