THE FAERY YEAR 



is saying much. The male wrens, if not their 

 mates, are now building. They have been working 

 not only during the hours of sunshine which aroused 

 the brimstone and the large white butterflies, but in 

 the storms. 



One male wren's nest I have just seen complete. 

 Probably it will never hold eggs, for there is no 

 sign of a mate for this prying, ducking, voluble 

 little bird. The nest may be forgotten and deserted 

 within the next week. It may happen that a male 

 bird, having built a nest, finds a mate and brings 

 her to it, but I believe such cases are exceptional. 

 The cause of this nest-building instinct, so strong 

 in the male wren, is quite obscure. One old 

 country idea is that the male wrens build the 

 nests to sleep in. I doubt whether wrens ever 

 regularly use their nests as sleeping quarters. 

 Certainly at this time of year the male wrens do 

 not house themselves thus. 



The nest I have just seen is fastened to the 

 scrubby and ivied trunk of an old yew whose 

 lustier neighbour yew was smoking gold the other 

 morning. It is so perfectly in harmony with its 

 environment that no one would find it save he saw 

 the wren enter or leave it. Even when you know 

 where the nest is, and look at it from a distance 

 of a few feet, it appears nothing but a slight 

 excrescence of the tree, or a thickening of the rough 

 cord of old ivy which grips the trunk. Except 

 the moss inside, its material was fetched from the 

 ground just beneath, or even from the scrubby 

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