2i8 BIRDS IN TOWN AND VILLAGE 



so spontaneous as the warbling of the robin — ^that 

 most perfect feathered impressionist; nor is it 

 endeared to me by early associations since I listened 

 in boyhood to the songs of other wrens. In what, 

 then, does its charm consist S" I do not know. Cer- 

 tainly it is delicate, and may even be described as 

 brilliant, in its limited way perfect, and to other 

 greater songs like the small pimpernel to a poppy 

 or a hollyhock. Unambitious, yet finished, it 

 has the charm of distinction. The wren is the least 

 self-conscious of our singers. Somewhere among 

 the higher green translucent leaves the little brown 

 barred thing is quietly sitting, busy for the nonce 

 about nothing, dreaming his summer dream, and 

 unknowingly telling it aloud. When shall we have 

 symbols to express as perfectly our summer-feeling 

 — our dream i 



That small song has served to remind me of two 

 small books I brought into the garden to read — 

 the works of two modern minor poets whose " wren- 

 like warblings," I imagined, would suit my mood and 

 the genial morning better than the stirring or subtle 

 thoughts of greater singers. Possibly in that I was 

 mistaken ; for there until now lie the books neg- 

 lected on a lawn chair within reach of my hand. 

 The chair was dragged hither half-an-hour ago by a 

 maiden all in white, who appeared half inclined to 

 share the mulberry shade with me. She did not 



