The Way of the Wren 



By KATRINE BLACKINTON, Blackinton, Mass. 



HE made his stage-entrance last spring at the garden-u .nor of the 

 house. While transplanting some perennials, my eye caught a cin- 

 namon streak darting into the eaves-pipe, simultaneous with a shiver- 

 bubble or two of an unmistakable v/ren song. Down went watering-pot and 

 trowel, for here was promise of s mething worth while. Could it be that a 

 house-hunt was in progress? Sud lenly, out hobbled the brown streak from 

 the eaves-pipe, with a particle ot silt in his bill which he deposited into the 

 ether, much as a bustling housewife would snap her duster, and darted in 

 again, repeating the performance until a thorough job was made of it. The 

 tin gutter under the eaves also received his attention. I could hear him 

 scuttling along the gutter-floor an 1 see him appear by flashes at the edge upon 

 occasion of depositing overboard a particle of silt. Soon the apple tree over 

 my head caught this cinnamon meteor, and there ensued such an outpour of 

 effervescent shivering bubbles that I couldn't but suppose that just the house 

 he had been looking for had been found and there only remained the question 

 of his wife's approval. 



It was with some surprise, then, that the following day I saw the same scene 

 being enacted on the eaves and gutters of the barn — the same scene with a 

 drama attached. 



A pair of English Sparrows had established themselves in a hole under the 

 eaves at the east gable of the barn, and had a family of five lusty Britishers 

 just launched into this troublesome world. When the sanitary inspector 

 reached the east gable, I was sornewhat taken back by seeing him shoot into 

 this Englishman's castle without as much as by your leave (a truly Prussian 

 performance, now, wasn't it?), only to bob out again with a white feather in 

 his bill ! The peeping protests of the youngsters strengthened my belief that 

 their warm bed was being removed by this hustling aggressor. His manner in 

 ejecting the feathers said "Dear me! it will be war to the death until I teach 

 these birds to keep clean!" The hole swallowed him again, and again a thin, 

 piping chorus of protests, and another feather took its rudderless course to 

 earth. The third time the feather was carried to a nearby apple tree where it 

 was carelessly released amid an intensive outpouring of Wren free-speech 

 directed to any it might concern. At this point Madame Sparrow, who had 

 evidently been viewing this offensive intrusion at a safe distance, entered her 

 home with a morsel in her bill and concern in her manner. Now the drama 

 was in full swing! Back flew the Wren, sure enough, to the Sparrow entrance, 

 with all his importance and nth power initiative, but, instead of dashing in, 

 he suddenly right-about-faced and the apple tree caught him again. While he 

 was explaining, in true Ludendorf style, to a solemn Bluebird pair, who weren't 

 in the least interested, that his retreat was entirely on strategic lines, my eye 



dss) 



