The Rambles of an Idler 



I wonder when this strange bird stops to feed 

 and if it retires at an early hour after so active 

 a day, but to attempt to solve any problem of 

 wren-dom is vain. My interpretation may be 

 wide of the mark, but it soothes my vanity, 

 which is sufficient excuse for its being. I must 

 reach to some conclusion. Failing in that is 

 to go mad. Whether early to bed or not, the 

 wren is an early riser. Long before my own 

 inclinations to be abroad have shaped them- 

 selves, the wren is all too apt to be just outside 

 my window, shouting, in energetic tones, the 

 merits of the morning. 



I confess to weariness of the flesh, at times, 

 and latterly, have seen paths too rugged for my 

 feet. The wren therefore does not appeal to 

 me as did the crows. They are too quick for 

 my sluggish pulse and all I would know of 

 them is beyond my interpretative power. I can 

 but translate their song of this morning as 

 Mer-ri-lee! and if I saw aright, their actions 

 fitted the word. 



The morning wears away and I am ready to 

 return. There is yet much to be done, digest- 

 ing my impressions. Were they greater in 

 number, I might lose the spirit of them all. It 



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