him, a regular little termagant, scolding 

 with all her might whenever the kittens 

 looked that way. 



Marsh wrens, small brown birds, with 

 barred wings and tail, breed in or about 

 the swamps and marshes of Lake Cham- 

 plain. 



They are intensely interesting from 

 their habit of constructing several nests 

 but one of which is utilized for house- 

 keeping. After the real nest is made and 

 the first egg laid, the male stays closely 

 at home busying itself with building sev- 

 eral nests, which are to all appearances 

 entirely superfluous. In locating these 

 he does not go beyond the immediate 

 neighborhood of the true nest. 



Some have thought that these sham 

 nests are used as hiding places for the 

 male, a Lilliputian watch tower or guard 

 house, from which close watch is kept 

 over the home property. Whether Mrs. 

 Marsh Wren really needs such close 

 watching, being more inclined to flirt 

 than the ordinary feathered spouse, or 

 because she is a better wife, so infinitely 

 precious that she must be guarded from 

 every side, is, as yet, an unsolved ques- 

 tion. "Love holds the key to all un- 

 known," and though there is litrie to ad- 

 mire in a deportment made fine by com- 

 pulsory measures, no doubt both parties 

 understand the situation, which is quite 

 enough for practical purposes. These 

 nests, conspicuous from their size and 

 exposed position, are securely attached 

 to the upright swaying reeds, some of 

 which penetrate their substance. They 

 are lined with soft grasses and have an 

 entrance at one side, often nearer the 

 bottom than the top. Mr. Burroughs, 

 who has found the marsh wren's nest 

 surrounded by half a dozen make-be- 

 lieves, says the gushing, ecstatic nature 

 of the bird expresses itself in this way. 

 It is simply so full of life and joy and of 

 parental instinct that it gives vent to it- 

 self in constructing sham nests ; the gen- 

 erous-hearted creature being willing to 

 build and support more homes than can 

 be furnished or utilized. 



Entering the Lake Shore drive at St. 

 Albans Bay, where dense tangles border 

 the swamp -beyond, you are sure to hear 

 a song that is unmistakably wrennish. 

 You have glimpses also of a small brown 



bird bubbling over with a nervous ener- 

 gy that betrays itself in every note he ut- 

 ters. Wait quietly and he approaches, 

 but go one step in his direction and he 

 recedes to the swamp where human foot 

 may not follow. 



Push your boat up the creek, the only 

 avenue leading to his abode, that tantal- 

 izing song leading on meanwhile like the 

 Pied Piper of Hamelin, though unlike the 

 latter there is no disillusioning at the end. 

 Red-winged blackbirds take wing as you 

 enter the twilight of soft green and am- 

 ber shade and the far-off music of their 

 jangle-bells becomes less musical, the 

 males striving "to recommend themselves 

 by music, like some awkward youth who 

 serenades his mistress with a jewsharp," 

 and using the air or the alder tops as a 

 parade ground upon which to exhibit 

 their musical evolutions. And yet you 

 are witness to many a voluntary bit of 

 sentiment that will increase your interest 

 in this scarlet epauletted regiment, de- 

 scendants of the dusky tribe that anchor- 

 ed long ago in this peaceful haven, going 

 out and coming in with the tide until the 

 legend of their coming is as vague and 

 shadowy and misty as that of the golden- 

 fleece voyageurs — the Argonauts. They 

 ebbed and flowed with the stream ; came 

 at the proper time and season without 

 knowing why ; anchored and launched 

 their ebony ships when it was time for 

 sailing. 



Here and there along this waterway 

 the branches clasp hands above the creek, 

 forming an arch of green within which 

 vines sufficiently elegant to warrant ex- 

 clusiveness cling in unaffected grace to 

 the alders, without inquiring or caring 

 as to the pedigree of their support. It is 

 sufficient for them that the support is 

 there. 



A whole half mile along the stream and 

 trees and bushes disappear, leaving a 

 dense mass of reeds, the marsh wren's 

 "ain countrie," out of which he is never 

 at his best and to which he gives you no 

 welcome. 



Birds, like persons, have wonderful 

 powers of concentration upon one topic, 

 woe be to you if that topic happens to be 

 yourself ! 



Every denizen of the swamp regards 

 you with suspicion, watching each move- 



is: 



