202 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 



his serenity is marred. It is still a little early 

 in the season for birds to become frantic at his 

 presence. When the robins, vireos, and chick- 

 adees have tender young dependent on them, the 

 sight of Puffy will drive them into paroxysms of 

 rage. 



I have called this warm pasture flecked with 

 buttercups and fallen apple petals the "Wren 

 Orchard." It deserves the name, for it is the 

 only spot in New England that I have ever 

 visited where house wrens survive and build 

 regularly. Even now I hear the jingling notes 

 of this once common but now rare bird falling 

 like drops of water from a fountain through the 

 sunlit air. Two years ago (May 26, 1889) I 

 found one of their nests. Attracted by the 

 showery notes of the male I crept into a cor- 

 ner of the orchard, where an old apple - tree 

 grew alone in a circle of privet and barberry 

 bushes. Concealed under their branches I 

 watched the tree. Soon a wren appeared, then 

 disappeared in the substance of the tree. Its 

 tiny body seemed to melt into the bark of a 

 horizontal limb about twelve feet above the 

 ground. I examined this limb, seeking a hole 

 in it, but found none. After a second period of 

 watching I saw that the bird passed into the 

 limb by a hole on its under side. I climbed the 

 tree, measured the extent of the hole, which was 



