ai8 BIRDS IN TOWN AND VILLAGE 



so spontaneous as the warbling of the robin that 

 most perfect feathered impressionist ; nor is it 

 endeared to me by early associations since I listened 

 in boyhood to the songs of other wrens* In what, 

 then, does its charm consist 4 I do not know* Cer- 

 tainly it is delicate, and may even be described as 

 brilliant, in its limited way perfect, and to other 

 greater songs like the small pimpernel to a poppy 

 or a hollyhock* Unambitious, yet finished, it 

 has the charm of distinction* The wren is the least 

 self-conscious of our singers* Somewhere among 

 the higher green translucent leaves the little brown 

 barred thing is quietly sitting, busy for the nonce 

 about nothing, dreaming his summer dream, and 

 unknowingly telling it aloud* When shall we have 

 symbols to express as perfectly our summer-feeling 

 our dream i 



That small song has served to remind me of two 

 small books I brought into the garden to read 

 the works of two modern minor poets whose " wren- 

 like warblings," I imagined, would suit my mood and 

 the genial morning better than the stirring or subtle 

 thoughts of greater singers* Possibly in that I was 

 mistaken ; for there until now lie the books neg- 

 lected on a lawn chair within reach of my hand* 

 The chair was dragged hither half-an-hour ago by a 

 maiden all in white, who appeared half inclined to 

 share the mulberry shade with me* She did not 



