24 IN THE BOCKY MOUNTAINS. 



alas ! a passing meadow-lark filled all the grove 

 with his wonderful song. 



And there was the wren ! He interested me 

 from the first ; for a wren is a bird of individu- 

 ality always, and his voice reminded me, in a 

 feeble way, of the witching notes of the winter 

 wren, the 



"Brown wren from out whose swelling throat 

 Unstinted joys of music float." 



This bird was the house wren, the humblest 

 member of his musical family; but there was 

 in his simple melody the wren quality, suggest- 

 ive of the thrilling performances of his more 

 gifted relatives ; and I found it and him very 

 pleasing. 



The chosen place for his vocal display was a 

 pile of brush besides closed-up little cottage, 

 and I suspected him of having designs upon 

 that two-roomed mansion for nesting purposes. 

 After hopping all about the loose sticks, deliver- 

 ing his bit of an aria a dozen times or more, in 

 a most rapturous way, he would suddenly dive 

 into certain secret passages among the dead 

 branches, when he was instantly lost to sight. 

 Then, in a few seconds, a close watcher might 

 sometimes see him pass like a shadow, under the 

 cottage, which stood up on corner posts, dart 

 out the farther side, and fly at once to the eaves. 



One day I was drawn from the house by a 



