70 
NATURE NOTES. 
evidence of great wealth, there can be no doubt but that the 
many species of Tinea which are found in Palestine were a very 
real danger, to be guarded against with the utmost solicitude. 
Eliza Brightwen. 
THE HUNTING OF THE WREN. 
S is well known, the hunting of the wren belongs to 
Ireland, on St. Stephen’s Day. It is said that a wren 
“ betrayed,” or, properly speaking, bewrayed, the Irish 
by tapping on a drum. To whom the Irish were 
“ betrayed ” is variously stated — some say to the Danes ; some 
to the English in the Boyne and Derry days. At any rate 
there has been a custom which it is not too hard to call 
brutal, by which an unfortunate wren fell a victim to the 
“ hunters,” who used to carry it round in a barbarously maimed 
state, and expect a donation at each house they came to. I 
may say that the “hunters” have been boys, and no doubt 
“ the fun of the thing,” the excitement of the plunge “thorough 
brake, thorough briar,” not merely the natural cruelty which 
is commonly attributed to boys, has had much to do with 
keeping up the custom. 
I wish I could be sure the actual catching of the wren 
were a thing of the past, as a leading Irish newspaper has 
lately averred it to be ; but it is only two or three years since 
a live wren, with its legs broken, was paraded about the 
neighbourhood where I was staying this last St. Stephen’s 
day, tied to a pole ; but of course the proceeding met with 
grave discouragement. 
This time some boys came to the door of my father’s 
rectory, in the county of Kilkenny, carrying an ash pole, 
about six feet four inches in height, at the top of which were 
tied boughs of holly, ivy, and laurel, and pieces of green 
paper, with a red paper “ rose ” surmounted by a few hen’s 
feathers, which symbolised the wren. 
This is the song the lads sang : I took it down amid 
much amusement from the trio. I give it precisely as they 
repeated it for me, with its confusion as to the sex of the 
wren, and its incorrect “ Stephens’s.” 
“ The wran, the wran, the king of all birds, 
St. Stephens’s Day she was caught in the furze. 
Although she was little, her honour was great ! 
Rise up, landlady, an’ give us a thrate ! 
“ I hunted this wran of a cold winter day, 
Through muddy water an’ yalla clay ; 
I broke her leg, an’ smasht her pate, 
An’ buried her at Mr. ’sgate. 
