My Neighbor's Wood-Shed 217 



song of summer-tide. To be baffled is never 

 pleasant, and to a wren of any species it is 

 intolerable. They, of all birds, demand 

 their own way in all things, and when foiled 

 are not models of patience, even though they 

 sing at such a time. 



Wrens, like ourselves, have their full share 

 of troubles, and the btte noir of this wood- 

 shed visitor was my neighbor's cat. Gri- 

 malkin never appeared to drop in with no 

 special purpose in view, or merely, if in 

 winter, for the sake of the warmth and 

 shelter. These were always to be had be- 

 hind the kitchen stove. There was one 

 chance in a thousand of surprising that wren, 

 and this one remote possibility was a power- 

 ful incentive. An occurrence like this would 

 be such a pleasant break in the monotony of 

 feline existence that the very thought was 

 inspiring. On the other hand, the wren 

 was not moved by fear when the cat ap- 

 peared, but by intense indignation. There 

 might be room enough in the world for cats 

 and wrens, but not in a wood-shed. The 

 cry was immediately set up of war to the 

 knife, and, like many another noisy conflict, 

 ended in one of words only. The wren 



