122 AT THE NORTH OF BE ARC AMP WATER. 
could explain the present temperaments of the 
wandering birds, but we may never know what 
that something is. Whether we are to know it 
or not, if is natural to have a feeling akin to 
pity for birds so lacking in home life. 
The winter wren is an amusing little migrant. 
He seems to have an underground railway of his 
own from the grim northern forest straight to¬ 
wards a milder clime. Like other underground 
ways, it has breathing holes, and out of these 
he occasionally pops his head and sputters at 
the observer. Sometimes he appears at an 
opening in a stone wall and scolds mankind for 
picking blackberries or plucking goldenrod; 
again he emerges from the darkness beneath a 
log in the swamp, and bustles about with the 
offensive energy of a special policeman. If he 
travels in company, the fact is not often made 
evident. He certainly seems too crusty for 
pleasant companionship on a long journey. 
One late September morning a winter wren flew 
into my hen-house and became my prisoner for 
a few hours. I placed him in a room and 
watched his efforts to escape. He flew with 
such speed that he made almost as much of a 
humming as a humming-bird. He clung to the 
woodwork, and hid in the curtains, but finally 
dropped to the floor and ran about like a mouse, 
hiding in corners or behind the legs of chairs. 
