THE HOUSE WREN 



A FEW years ago I put up a little bird-house 

 in the back end of my garden for the accommoda- 

 tion of the wrens, and every season a pair have 

 taken up their abode there. One spring a pair of 

 bluebirds looked into the tenement and lingered 

 about several days, leading me to hope that they 

 would conclude to occupy it. But they finally 

 went away, and later in the season the wrens ap- 

 peared, and, after a little coquetting, were regu- 

 larly installed in their old quarters, and were as 

 happy as only wrens can be. 



One of our younger poets, Myron Benton, saw 

 a little bird 



" Ruffled with whirlwind of his ecstasies," 



which must have been the wren, as I know of no 

 other bird that so throbs and palpitates with mu- 

 sic as this little vagabond. And the pair I speak 

 of seemed exceptionally happy, and the male had 

 a small tornado of song in his crop that kept 

 him " ruffled " every moment in the day. But be- 

 fore their honeymoon was over the bluebirds re- 

 turned. I knew something was wrong before I was 

 up in the morning. Instead of that voluble and 

 gushing song outside the window, I heard the 



