THE WINTEE WEEN 



An old hemlock wood at the head waters of 

 the Delaware is a chosen haunt of the winter 

 wren. His voice fills these dim aisles, as if aided 

 by some marvelous sounding-board. Indeed, his 

 song is very strong for so small a bird, and unites 

 in a remarkable degree brilliancy and plaintive- 

 ness. I think of a tremulous, vibrating tongue 

 of silver. You may know it is the song of a wren 

 from its gushing, lyrical character ; but you must 

 needs look sharp to see the little minstrel, espe- 

 cially while in the act of singing. He is nearly the 

 color of the ground and the leaves; he never 

 ascends the tall trees, but keeps low, flitting 

 from stump to stump and from root to root, dodg- 

 ing in and out of his hiding-places, and watching 

 all intruders with a suspicious eye. He has a very 

 pert, almost comical look. His tail stands more 

 than perpendicular : it points straight toward his 

 head. He is the least ostentatious singer I know 

 of. He does not strike an attitude, and lift up 

 his head in preparation, and, as it were, clear his 

 throat ; but sits there on a log and pours out his 

 music, looking straight before him, or even down 

 at the ground. As a songster, he has but few 



