178 
BIRDS IN A VILLAGE. 
singer has succeeded him. I have heard and seen 
the little wren a dozen times to-day ; now he has 
come to the upper part of the tree T am lying under, 
and although so near his voice sounds scarcely 
louder than before. This is also a lyric, but of 
another kind. It is not powerful, nor brilliant, nor 
plaintive, nor passionate ; nor is it so spontaneous 
as the warbling of the robin — fchat most perfect 
feathered impressionist; nor is it endeared to me 
by early associations, since I listened in boyhood to 
the song of other wrens. In what, then, does its 
charm consist ? I do not know. Certainly it is 
delicate, expressing a subdued tender gladness ; in 
its limited way perfect, and to other songs like the 
dim modest violet amid its clustering leaves to 
other garden flowers that flaunt larger and more 
brightly coloured petals. 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 ? 
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 
