THE WREN AND THE KINGLET
“Another highly talented architect, past master in the building of
nests, is the wren, known in learned language as the troglodyte. If you
ask me the meaning of this strange name I shall reply that it is a
Greek word signifying ‘dweller in holes.’ Some inventor of names, more
in love with Greek than desirous of being understood, thought he was
doing a fine thing when he gave this big name to the little bird that
worms its way into small holes as a mouse would. Perhaps my description
will be more easily understood than his hard name. The troglodyte or
wren is a fluffy bunch of plumage resembling that of the woodcock. With
trailing wings, beak to windward, and tail erect over its rump, it is
always frisking and hopping about, uttering the while its cheery cry of
teederee, teeree, teeree.”
“I know that bird,” Jules broke in. “It isn’t much bigger than a
walnut, and every winter it comes flying about the house, hunting in
the woodpile and in holes in the walls, and darting into the thickest
parts of bushes. From a distance you would take it for a bold little
rat.”
“That is it, that is the wren. In summer it lives in densely grown
woods. There, under the arch formed by some large upward-curving root
coated with a thick fleece of moss, it builds a home for itself in
imitation of the penduline’s nest. The materials it uses are bits of
moss, which make the nest look like its support. It forms them into a
large hollow ball with a very narrow opening on one side. It is lined
with feathers. Occasionally the wren builds its nest in some chimney or
a pile of fagots, a thick clump of ivy or a natural cavity in the bank
of a shady stream. The laying consists of about ten white eggs dotted
with red at the large end.
“When the weather turns cold, the bird leaves the woods and approaches
our farm-houses. You can see it then, always busy and on the move,
prying into dark holes in woodpiles, old walls, dead trees, and thick
bushes, looking in every crack and cranny for all kinds of vermin that
take up their winter quarters in the fissures with which old bark is
furrowed and in the cracks that occur in weather-beaten mortar. To gain
an idea of their unceasing activity in this sort of research, you have
only to watch them once as they go prying into a heap of brush, flying
in and out on all sides of it without a moment’s pause for rest.”
“Yes,” assented Jules, “but it is so tiny a creature it can’t do much
work.”
“If the wren hunted big game, certainly at the end of the day it would
not have captured its prey by the dozen. What could such a little thing
do with a June-bug? It would not come to the end of such a supply of
food for several days.”
“And the June-bug would be too hard for its beak, too,” remarked Jules.
“What it needs is the smallest of caterpillars and the tiniest of
gnats, which make a more delicate mouthful and are better adapted to
the bird’s small throat. I need not remind you that the worst foes to
our crops are the smallest. A grub too tiny to catch the eye endangers
our cereals, and others equally small ravage our fruit while it is
still in the bud. How much does it take to destroy a blossom that would
produce a pear the size of your two fists? One single larva just
visible to the naked eye. Well, the wren attacks these tiny foes of
ours that are all the more troublesome because we cannot see them
easily. Now guess how many little caterpillars a day the wren needs for
feeding its brood. Observers whose patience I admire have calculated
the number.”
“Let us say ten caterpillars to each little bird,” replied Jules, “and
ten little birds in the nest. That would make a hundred caterpillars a
day, and it is certainly a lot.”
“A lot! Ah, how far out you are in your reckoning! The mother wren
brings something to her little ones at least thirty-six times an hour.
She feeds them a mixed diet of insects, larvæ and eggs. At the end of a
day the number of insects destroyed, of one kind and another, amounts
to one hundred and fifty-six thousand. That leaves your paltry hundred
a long way behind, my dear Jules.”
“Then the caterpillars must be very small, or the brood of wrens would
die of indigestion.”
“Undoubtedly they are exceedingly small, and then a great many are not
even hatched yet; but the result as far as we are concerned is just as
important, so many eggs devoured meaning so many ravagers the fewer a
little later.”
“Supposing,” said Louis, “that the wren takes only the worms that
attack pears, that would be one hundred and fifty-six thousand pears
the little birds would save for us in one day?”
“Evidently.”
“But that is beyond belief.”
“I admit that the result is very great in comparison with the means
employed. A tiny bird that nobody notices goes pecking here and there,
and we find that at the end of the day the caterpillar-eater has
destroyed, either in the egg or in the nymph-stage or in the final
form, thousands of insects which, if allowed to live, would have
deprived us of enormous basketfuls of fruit and hundreds of bushels of
grain. If we were to estimate the value of the crops saved by
insectivorous birds, it would be a fabulous sum. Leave them, therefore,
in peace, my children, and do all you can to protect them; for these
busy little creatures ward off famine from our homes.
“While we are on the subject let us speak of another little Tom Thumb
of a bird, another caterpillar-destroyer as energetic as the wren. It
is called the kinglet, that is to say, the little king, on account of
the crown of golden yellow edged with black that encircles its head. It
is the smallest of our birds. It is olive-colored above and
yellowish-white beneath. Its beautiful crown feathers can stand up like
a crest.
“The kinglet breeds in the cold countries of Europe, and especially in
the fir forests of Norway. Its nest is a little ball no bigger than
your fist, open at the top, artistically fashioned outside with moss,
wool, and spiders’ webs, and lined with the softest down. It rests flat
on some fir branch at an inaccessible height. The eggs, from six to
eight in number, are of a uniform flesh color.
“Although very delicate in appearance, the kinglet stands the cold with
great hardihood. It comes to us from the land of its birth in small
flocks when the autumnal fogs are gathering and the leaves are falling.
These flocks of five or six birds at most scatter through the woods,
public promenades, and orchards, to examine the cracks in bark, to
explore the heaps of dead leaves, and to inspect the buds while
clinging to the tips of the smallest branches. Not even the tomtit
shows itself a more expert gymnast in hanging with head downward and
working in all sorts of attitudes. The task of destroying caterpillars
is accompanied by a continual little rallying cry: zee-zee-zee,
zee-zee-zee.
“The kinglet has great confidence in mankind. With no sign of fear even
when within hearing of the footsteps and conversation of persons
walking about, it continues its evolutions, its hunting, its
zee-zee-zee. It will let one come close, almost near enough to reach
out a hand and take hold of it. But the knowing little creature,
although it appears not to see you because it is so busy, darts
suddenly away and mounts to the upper branches to carry on its work at
a safer distance.”