voice reminded me, in a feeble
way, of the witching notes of the winter wren, the

"Brown wren from out whose swelling throat
Unstinted joys of music float."

This bird was the house wren, the humblest member of his musical family;
but there was in his simple melody the wren quality, suggestive of the
thrilling performances of his more gifted relatives; and I found it and
him very pleasing.

The chosen place for his vocal display was a pile of brush beside a
closed-up little cottage, and I suspected him of having designs upon
that two-roomed mansion for nesting purposes. After hopping all about
the loose sticks, delivering his bit of an aria a dozen times or more,
in a most rapturous way, he would suddenly dive into certain secret
passages among the dead branches, when he was instantly lost to sight.
Then, in a few seconds, a close watcher might sometimes see him pass
like a shadow, under the cottage, which stood up on corner posts, dart
out the farther side, and fly at once to the eaves.

One day I was drawn from the house by a low and oft-repeated cry, like
"Hear, hear, hear!" It was emphatic and imperative, as if some
unfortunate little body had the business of the world on his shoulders,
and could not get it done to his mind. I carefully approached the
disturbed voice, and was surprised to find it belonged to the wren, who
was so disconcerted at sight of me, that I concluded this particular
sort of utterance must be for the benefit of his family alone. Later,
that kind of talk, his lord-and-master style as I supposed, was the most
common sound I heard from him, and not near the cottage and the brush
heap, but across the brook. I thought that perhaps I had displeased him
by too close surveillance, and he had set up housekeeping out of my
reach. Across the brook I could not go, for between "our side" and the
other raged a feud, which had culminated in torn-up bridges and barbed
wire protections.

One day, however, I had a surprise. In studying another bird, I was led
around to the back of the still shut-up cottage, and there I found, very
unexpectedly, an exceedingly busy and silent wren. He did sing
occasionally while I watched him from afar, but in so low a tone that it
could not be heard a few steps away. Of course I understood this
unnatural circumspection, and on observing him cautiously, I saw that
he made frequent visits to the eaves of the cottage, the very spot I
had hoped he would nest. Then I noted