THE BLUEBIRD. 253 



frequently come into collision. A few years 

 ago I put up a little bird-house in the back 

 end of my garden for the accommodation 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 appeared, and after 

 a little coquetting, were regularly 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 music as this little vagabond. And the 

 pair I speak of seemed exceptionably happy, 

 and the male had a small tornado of song in 

 his crop that kept him " ruffled " every mo- 

 ment in the day. But before their honey- 

 moon was over, the bluebirds returned. 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 wrens scolding and crying at a fearful 



