WRENS. 85 
everywhere to others. No one more fully appreciates 
this than the naturalist. 
One person can gather quantities of arbutus in woods 
where others affirm that no arbutus grows. 
Thoreau could, in any field, find his Indian arrow. 
Langille has only to cross a vacant lot in the city, even 
in winter, to see a shore lark, and very likely to find its 
nest half covered with snow. David F. Day finds the 
pinguicula on almost inaccessible rocks that look verdure- 
less to others. My friend, J. F. Cowell, has only to 
step upon the grass to find an interesting adventitious 
plant never seen in the locality by others. This wren 
is my Indian arrow—my pinguicula, and its voice often 
adds a charm to my rambles in the heavier woods. I 
remember one wild romantic glen, near Portage Falls. 
A cool stream runs through it, and tall hemlocks and 
pines grow thick along its sides, entwining their boughs 
with those of the chesnuts and beeches. The arbutus 
and Mitchella carpet, the steep banks whose summits are 
crowned with the more showy, though not less fragrant 
azalia. Here, too, grows in great abundance the beautiful 
little flowery wintergreen, with its roseate hues and 
curiously shaped blossoms. The placealways seems such 
a fitting retreat for my favorite little musical hermit, 
that I never visit it without feeling almost certain that 
I shall hear him there. Last summer as I occupied a 
favorite seat on a mossy log well up the glen, talking 
with a companion about the bird, and expressing the 
wish that we might hear him, sure enough, almost as by 
magic, the clear, sweet and never-to-be-mistaken notes 
