TWO WRENS. 



The house wren is one of Nature's illu- 

 minated successes. It has been said that 

 there is no second spring, yet to-day (July 

 20th) this bird is in the full glory of 

 spring-time melody. He sings from the 

 top of a telegraph pole, the song caught 

 up and repeated by some country cousin 

 in the grove, a musical argument carried 

 on all day long and left at night in the 

 same unsettled state in which morning 

 found it. Whether they are discussing 

 the relative merit of their respective 

 claims, a town residence or a country 

 seat, I am unable to decide ; it is certain, 

 however, that the concessions of neither 

 party infringe upon domestic dignity. 



Their speech is a revelation of supreme 

 content, a liquid, flexible measure with 

 ripples and cascades bubbling through 

 and over, a dash of pure color amid July's 

 neutral tinted emotions. 



The day may be dark and threatening, 

 the sun concealed in gloomy banks of 

 cloud, rain falling, or thick mists obscur- 

 ing the valley ;. each and all are powerless 

 to dampen his ardor or to effect his ex- 

 treme optimism. He clings to his creed 

 with persistent closeness, asserting val- 

 iantly the ecstasy of finding one's self 

 alive and emphasizing the statement by 

 a perfect wave of melodious argument. 



There are hours when he sings with 

 such force that his whole little body 

 catches the key-note and natural rhythm ; 

 the melody becomes compounded of his 

 very substance, body of his body and soul 

 of his soul. It is an inundation of musi- 

 cal notes, cascadic, cataclysmic, the tide 

 of song rising till it drowns his personali- 

 ty ; he is no longer a bird but an animated 

 song. 



My little neighbor is a pattern of hus- 

 bandly devotion, a lover-husband over 

 whom coming events, are already casting 

 tender shadows before, the special event 



in this instance being located in a crevice 

 beneath the eaves of the house. 



Wren babies had not left the first nest 

 when Jenny Wren's husband was hard 

 at work upon a second house, which was 

 ready for occupancy before the first fam- 

 ily were self-supporting. This was an 

 admirable arrangement in the way of 

 time-saving, as eggs are often laid in the 

 second nest before the first is vacated. 



Though the new house lacked the 

 freshness of coloring and the pictur- 

 esqueness of the swing of a nest in the 

 sunshine, Jenny Wren made no com- 

 plaint of being cooped up in the darkness, 

 and as to her husband, he was quite as 

 well pleased with the glamor and won- 

 der of its art as if it had been wound with 

 blossoms and sprinkled with star-dust. 

 A bird with different tastes might have 

 urged that it was only a little hole in the 

 house-jet, yet everything in life depends 

 upon the point of view from which you 

 regard it. Judged from the wren stand- 

 point, it was considered admirably adapt- 

 ed to the family needs, nor could the most 

 critical observer fail to see here a literal 

 illustration of that familiar truth : Happi- 

 ness is from within. 



Standing upon a ladder I counted eight 

 eggs as my eyes became gradually accus- 

 tomed to the partial darkness within the 

 nest ; the dark, vinaceous spots laid on so 

 thickly as to conceal or obliterate the 

 original color, thus helping to hide them 

 more securely. In the long brooding 

 days, when Jenny's little answering heart 

 is preoccupied and silent, the hours are 

 sometimes long and lonely to her mate. 

 At these times he has been known to de- 

 vote his spare moments to building a nest 

 simply for his own pleasure. Many in- 

 stances of this remarkable habit are re- 

 corded of the English wren, the explana- 

 tion offered being that the odd nests are 



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