ear this time, everything else was
forgotten, and after a few moments' eager suspense we saw our bird. He
was little and inconspicuous in shades of brown, with tail stuck pertly
up, wren fashion, foraging among the dead leaves and on old logs,
entirely unconscious that he was one of the three distinguished singers
of the wood; none but the hermit thrush and the veery being comparable
to him. Whenever, in the serious business of getting his breakfast, he
reached a particularly inviting twig, or a more than usually nice rest
on a log, he threw up his little head and poured out the marvelous
strain that had taken us captive, then half hopped, half flew down, with
such energy that he "whirred" as he went. We watched his "tricks and
manners," and, what was more, we steeped our souls in his music as long
as we chose, that morning.

[Sidenote: _FASCINATED BY A WREN._]

The lovely long June days were never more fascinating. Every morning we
went into our beloved woods to watch its bird population; to find out
who was building, who had already set up housekeeping; to penetrate
their secrets, and discover their wonderfully hidden nests. Each day we
heard the witching song that never lost its charm for us. One
morning--it was the fifteenth of the month--we were sauntering up one of
the most inviting paths. The dog was ahead, carrying on his strong and
willing neck his mistress's stool, she following closely, steadying the
same with her hand, while I, as was my custom, brought up the rear.
Suddenly, as we approached a pile of dead limbs from a fallen tree, my
friend stopped motionless, and as usual the caravan came to instant
halt. Without taking her eyes from the brush heap, she silently pulled
the stool from the dog's neck and sat down upon it. I seated myself
beside her, and the dog stretched himself at our feet.

"A wren," she whispered briefly, and in a moment I saw it. A mother, no
doubt, for her mouth was full of food, and she was fidgeting about on a
branch, undecided as yet what she should do, with that formidable array
in front of her very door, as it afterward turned out. A wren is a
quick-witted little creature, and she was not long in making up her
mind. She flitted around us, turned our right flank (so to speak), and
vanished behind us.

We took the hint, changed our front, and, after the moment's confusion,
subsided again, gently waving our maple boughs to terrorize the foe that
was always with us, and keeping sh