302 KNOWING BIRDS THROUGH STORIES 



and telling stories. Aunt Polly and I were to go fish- 

 ing in the afternoon. We had chored about the barn and 

 were on our way back to the house when we were both 

 startled by the rollicking song of a wren. "Well," said 

 Uncle Dave, "I do believe Sally is back; let's go and see," 

 and he led the way to the well. Uncle Dave leaned over the 

 well and called, "Sally, Sally." Quick as a wink the bird 

 darted to his side, scolding, twittering, and fussing with 

 all her might. He stood there and smiled until she became 

 quiet and then called "Sally," and the whole thing started 

 over again. It seemed that this little songster knew her 

 name and resented it. 



It had started in this way. Two years before, this wren 

 had decided to set up housekeeping in the roof of the 

 well house. Day after day she and her hard working hus- 

 band carried sticks by the hundred and piled them in the 

 corner of the well-house rafters, and evening after evening 

 Uncle Dave threw them away, for he was equally deter- 

 mined that she should not nest in the well house, lest the 

 sticks and feathers flutter down into the water. Some 

 whim caused him to begin calling her Sally, and scolding 

 her every time she came around the well. Persistent little 

 vixen that she was, in spite of his efforts she raised three 

 broods of young in the very spot where she placed her 

 first sticks. She became so furious at his throwing away 

 her sticks that he could not come near the well without her 

 flying into his face scolding and pecking like a little 

 demon, although she never bothered anyone else. This 

 pleased Uncle Dave so much that he finally surrendered 

 and allowed her to have her way. As the summer wore 

 away and her nest was not disturbed any more, her resent- 

 ment seemed to settle around the use of the name Sally, 



