of charity is needed, the musician pre- 

 eminent among all this gifted throng, the 

 Carolina wren. A slender curved beak 

 a trim bunch of cinnamon-brown feathers 

 barred with darker brown on wings and 

 tail, a buff breast, a little throat pulsating 

 with vigorous buoyant life are the most 

 conspicuous characteristics of this choris- 

 ter of winter woods. He has been called 

 the mocking wren. Let no one be de- 

 luded by such a term into the belief that 

 he has no individuality, for, although his 

 song has in it the whistle of the cardinal, 

 the dignified song of the brown thrasher 

 and the effervescence of the mocking- 

 bird, through it all there runs a pecuHar 

 quality all his own. Swinging on a rat- 

 tan vine, singing with all the abandon of 

 a bright May morning he seems the most 

 vigorous exponent of "the strenuous life" 

 in this land where langorous breezes blow 

 soft and warm, bringing with them a sug- 

 gestion of the sun-kissed waters of the 

 Gulf and odors of resin and turpentine 

 from the interminable forests that inter- 

 vene between us and the coast. 



Down by the branches on cold frosty 

 mornings you will find a little brown ball 

 of a bird, that with tail tilted up over his 

 back dives under every bridge, slides into 

 every brush-heap, or hides tantalizingly 

 behind every log that comes in his path. 

 Not shy, yet not bold, he disappears from 

 view at the most exasperating moments. 

 Coming with the frosts, going away when 

 they cease, he certainly deserves the name 

 of winter wren. Shorter than the Caro- 

 lina, darker on the back and tail, his ner- 

 vous, fidgety manner makes it an easy 

 matter to distinguish him from his more 

 talented cousin. In these winter woods 

 he never sings. Beyond an occasional 

 metallic ''chip" now and then I have 

 never heard him Qive utterance to the 



emotions that fill his plump little breast. 

 He is the silent observer of the busy life 

 about him, a sitter in his own chimney 

 corner, where he smokes his pipe and 

 studies life subjectively, a modest little 

 philosopher in cinnamon brown and 

 black. 



Darting in and out among the lower 

 branches of a giant beech, now flitting to 

 a new position with movements as sudden 

 and unexpected as those of a humming- 

 bird, now running along a limb like the 

 brown creeper, comes another tiny friend 

 the ruby crowned kinglet. A plain little 

 Quaker he seems in his suit of olive 

 green without a patch of yellow or black 

 to relieve the severe simplicity of his 

 garb. Even the tufts of brilliant red fea- 

 thers on his head is concealed from vul- 

 gar gaze. If you have sharp eyes and a 

 moderate degree of patience your efforts 

 to get a glimpse of the red tuft will by 

 and by be crowned with success, but don't 

 be disappointed if you don't see the ruby 

 the first time you see the bird. I had ob- 

 served the cheerful little chap time after 

 time in my morning rambles in the 

 woods, and bad come to know every 

 twist and motion of the tiny body before 

 I caught a glimpse of the longed-for tuft. 

 Finally one morning as he bent his head 

 to pick up some sweet tid-bit the olive- 

 green feathers parted and I saw his tiny 

 crown. A modest genial little anarchist 

 he is, never parading his opinions before 

 an admiring public, but suddenly spring- 

 ing down in front of us on some low bush 

 he flaunts his red flag and is gone before 

 we realize it. Having once learned how 

 and when to look for his crown it is an 

 easy matter to find it again whenever his 

 little majesty feels inclined to give you 

 the opportunity. 



James Stephen Compton. 



