214 My Neighbor's Wood-Shed 



occasionally appeared, but his was a thorny 

 path. A new idea was as sure to disturb the 

 sacred routine of eventless life as a tornado 

 cuts a path in the forest, and Quakers are 

 opposed to violence. But mankind, intelli- 

 gent or otherwise, is never as entertaining as 

 bird-kind, which is never stupid. There 

 was more fire in the beady black eyes of my 

 friend, the winter wren, than could be gath- 

 ered from the optics of a whole congrega- 

 tion. 



When I have been lounging here in the 

 wood-shed, alone in a certain sense, for 

 real solitude increases with the number of 

 the loungers, I have seen this wee brown 

 bird come swiftly as a sunbeam through a 

 knot hole into the shed, and, perching on the 

 chopping-block, survey the surroundings and 

 myself more particularly. Did I mean mis- 

 chief, was the evident tenor of its thoughts, 

 and by my absolute quiescence I assured it, 

 as best I could, that I did not. There was 

 no sudden interchange of thought between 

 us, but when an understanding was reached 

 the purposes of the wren were carried out 

 without further regard to myself. This it 

 was I did not like. It is a great shock to 



