such distress that I
felt reproached. By gazing fixedly through my glass into the dark hole I
could see the head of a sprightly nestling pop up and turn alertly from
side to side as if returning my inspection. The old wren's calls made me
think of a human mother who can no longer control her big wayward
offspring and has to entreat them to do as she bids. It was as if she
said, "Oh, _do_ be good children, _do_ keep still; _do_ put your heads
back; you _naughty_ children, you _must_ do as I tell you!"

On June 16, six weeks after I had found the birds building, I wrote in
my note-book: "I am astonished every morning when I come and find the
wrens still here, but perhaps it's easier feeding them in one spot than
it would be chasing around after them in half a dozen different places."

The young were chattering inside the nest. They all talked at once as
children will, but one small voice assumed the tones of the mother;
probably the oldest brother speaking with the air of authority
featherless children sometimes assume with the weaker members of the
family. When a parent came, I saw the big brother's head pop up from
behind the wall,--the nest was in a pocket below,--and by the time the
old bird got there with food the big throat blocked the way for the
little ones down behind. Sometimes I could see a flutter of small wings
and tails, when the birds were being fed.

As nothing happened, I went off to watch another nest, but in an hour
was back to make sure of seeing the small wrens when they left the nest.
A loud continuous scolding met me on approaching, and one of the old
wrens, with bill full of insects, flew--not up to the nest--but down in
among the weeds! In less than an hour that whole brood of wrens had
flown, and were three or four rods away in the high weeds--safe! I was
taken aback. They had stolen a march on me. Surely I had not been
treated as was fit and proper, being one of the family!

It was amusing to see the young ones fly. They whirled away on their
wings as if they had been flitting around in the big world always; but
their stubby tails sadly interfered with their progress, and they came
to earth before they meant.

Weak cries came from the young hidden in the weeds. They could fly, but
it was different from being safe inside a tree trunk! I hardly
recognized their weak appealing voices, after the stentorian tones that
had issued from the old nest.

The weeds were a most admirable cover, and th