BETSY BOUNCE, THE ROCK WREN 89 



finds as happy a domicile on the very pinnacles 

 of our highest mountains as on the fog-drenched 

 lowlands bordering the ocean a cosmopolite, 

 indeed, and everywhere a happy bird. Those 

 living on the higher mountains go to lower levels 

 during the winter, but the desert-dwellers make 

 no vertical migrations during the year, remain- 

 ing in their arid, sun-bleached home through the 

 intense heat of summer as well as the pleasant 

 days of winter. 



The rock wren, like the mountain junco, is an 

 agreeably sociable little bird, coming about 

 one's quarters and making herself at home if 

 given the least encouragement. My little Betsy 

 Bounce, as I love to call the fidgety little rock 

 wren that has made herself so familiar about my 

 home, comes regularly each morning to the 

 door to pick up the crumbs which I throw down 

 for her, and when all is quiet she comes inside 

 the house and, after crumbing the floor, hunts 

 in every crack and cranny from floor to ceiling 

 for insects. Not the tiniest crack escapes her 

 sharp, watchful eye, though sometimes it takes 

 her fully fifteen minutes of constant search to 

 finish her task of routing out the spiders. Often 



