52 SOME CANADIAN niRDS. 



beon discovorod by naturaliHts. It is usually i)laced in the moss at 

 tho foot of a decayod Htuiup or tho side of a fallen tree, sometimes 

 amid a pile of brush, or under tho tangled dchris of a swamp. 

 Extenially it is a ball of dry moss, compactly laid, the entrance 

 being at the side. Within is a soft bed of feathers, or roots, or hair. 

 Four to six eggs are laid, in size somewhat hirgor than a chickadee's, 

 and of white color, marked near tho largo end with minute spots 

 of reddish brown and purple. 



The whiter wren is among the smallest of Canadian birds, measur- 

 ing barely four inches in its extreme length. The plumage of the 

 bird is an unattractive reddish l)r()wn, though when in the hand it 

 proves to be prettily marked with waved lines of a darker tint. 

 The wings are dusky, with dark bars and pale spots. The tail is 

 short and is usually carried in the air, at a right angle to the body. 



These birds feed on small insects, which they hunt with ceaseless 

 activity, and this activity keeps them always hungry, and so always 

 on the go ; and such a going, such scampering about, such flitting, 

 hither and yon, no other bird quite equals. I discovered one of 

 these agile fellows running along a wind-fall and exulted over the 

 opportunity to study him. He was not shy, and, indeed, seemed 

 almost indifferent to my presence, but before I could cover him 

 vvith my glass he had hidden amid the tangle of a brush heap. Out 

 again in a moment, he paused to pick up a stray grub, but before I 

 could wink twice he had whisked off to the boughs that swung in 

 the air far overhead. While hunting for him there I heard his voice 

 from another tree some thirty yards away, whither I followed. I 

 was almost certain it was the same bird, for two are rarely met with 

 in one grove — they are not sociable — so I was not surprised when, 

 after following the voice from tree to tree, I found myself back to 

 the wind-fall from which I had started, and on the prostrate trunk, 

 as before, was the wren. He was busily searching for food as usual, 

 but he stopped suddenly, threw back his head and without preface 

 flung to the air his brilliant song — one of the very best of our 

 sylvan melodies. 



It is a typical wild-bird's song that comes from the wren's 

 throstle, the song of a creature wild and free, and happy with the 

 delight of living ; yet it is not suggestive of hilarious mirth, like 

 the bobolink's merry lay, nor is there in its theme anything of the 



