CHAPTER IV. 

 SWAMP WHITE-OAK BEND. 



Am angry Carolina wren is a capital alarm-clock. 

 This morning the bird was astir before dawn, and roused 

 me promptly at 4.30. 



Once out-of-doors, I tarried longer in the yard than 

 I intended, as the antics of the bird piqued my curios- 

 ity. Strange to say, the creature was more excited than 

 usual, and noisier than ever before. Probably a prowl- 

 ing rat had come too near, and yet I saw no evidence 

 of damage to the nest. The five young birds were tak- 

 ing an enviably comfortable nap. Still, the parent — I 

 saw but one — was far from satisfied. Mounting a little 

 weather-vane, it rattled its peculiar pr-r-r-r ; then dashing 

 into the elm, it screamed jim-mee; then from the roof 

 of the ice-house called zu-rei-Jca, and so on, until its vo- 

 cabulary was exhausted. I lost fully an hour following 

 the bird from point to point, hoping to learn the cause 

 of its trouble. 



I never knew this wren to mingle its many so-called 

 songs. The one that it utters at the outset is sure to 

 be repeated so long as the bird remains on a particular 

 perch. When it changes its position, even if it be but 

 for a few yards, its new song will be of a wholly differ- 

 ent character. For years I have been trying to deter- 

 mine if these notes, which are so extraordinarily varied, 



