ter, I went after him, he could not be found, and we never saw
him again. We hoped hunger would soon drive him back, but we have had no
clew to him from that day to this.

THE WINTER WREN

An old hemlock wood at the head waters of the Delaware is a chosen haunt
of the winter wren. His voice fills these dim aisles, as if aided by
some marvelous sounding-board. Indeed, his song is very strong for so
small a bird, and unites in a remarkable degree brilliancy and
plaintiveness. I think of a tremulous, vibrating tongue of silver. You
may know it is the song of a wren from its gushing, lyrical character;
but you must needs look sharp to see the little minstrel, especially
while in the act of singing. He is nearly the color of the ground and
the leaves; he never ascends the tall trees, but keeps low, flitting
from stump to stump and from root to root, dodging in and out of his
hiding-places, and watching all intruders with a suspicious eye. He has
a very pert, almost comical look. His tail stands more than
perpendicular: it points straight toward his head. He is the least
ostentatious singer I know of. He does not strike an attitude, and lift
up his head in preparation, and, as it were, clear his throat; but sits
there on a log and pours out his music, looking straight before him, or
even down at the ground. As a songster, he has but few superiors. I do
not hear him after the first week in July.

The winter wren is so called because he sometimes braves our northern
winters, but it is rarely that one sees him at this season. I think I
have seen him only two or three times in winter in my life. The event of
one long walk, recently, in February, was seeing one of these birds. As
I followed a byroad, beside a little creek in the edge of a wood, my eye
caught a glimpse of a small brown bird darting under a stone bridge. I
thought to myself no bird but a wren would take refuge under so small a
bridge as that. I stepped down upon it and expected to see the bird dart
out at the upper end. As it did not appear, I scrutinized the bank of
the little run, covered with logs and brush, a few rods farther up.

Presently I saw the wren curtsying and gesticulating beneath an old log.
As I approached he disappeared beneath some loose stones in the bank,
then came out again and took another peep at me, then fidgeted about for
a moment and disappeared again, running in and out of the holes and
recesses and beneath the rubbish like a mo