IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 89 



winter wren should have chosen haunts so ex- 

 tremely diverse, the one preferring door-yards 

 in thickly settled villages, the other keeping 

 strictly to the wildest of all wild places. But 

 whatever the explanation, we need not wish the 

 fact itself different. Comparatively few ever 

 hear the winter wren's song, to be sure (for 

 you will hardly get it from a hotel piazza), but 

 it is not the less enjoyed on that account. 

 There is such a thing as a bird's making him- 

 self too common ; and probably it is true even of 

 the great prima donna that it is not those who 

 live in the house with her who find most pleas- 

 ure in her music. Moreover, there is much in 

 time and circumstance. You hear a song in 

 the village street, and pass along unmoved ; but 

 stand in the silence of the forest, with your feet 

 in a bed of creeping snowberry and oxalis, and 

 the same song goes to your very soul. 



The great distinction of the winter wren's 

 melody is its marked rhythm and accent, which 

 give it a martial, fife -like character. Note 

 tumbles over note in the true wren manner, and 

 the strain comes to an end so suddenly that for 

 the first few times you are likely to think that 

 the bird has been interrupted. In the middle 

 is a long in-drawn note, much like one of the 

 canary's. The odd little creature does not get 

 far away from the ground. I have never seen 



