The house wren is one of Nature’s illuminated successes. It has been
said that there is no second spring, yet to-day (July 20th) this bird is
in the full glory of spring-time melody. He sings from the top of a
telegraph pole, the song caught up and repeated by some country cousin
in the grove, a musical argument carried on all day long and left at
night in the same unsettled state in which morning found it. Whether
they are discussing the relative merit of their respective claims, a
town residence or a country seat, I am unable to decide; it is certain,
however, that the concessions of neither party infringe upon domestic
dignity.
Their speech is a revelation of supreme content, a liquid, flexible
measure with ripples and cascades bubbling through and over, a dash of
pure color amid July’s neutral tinted emotions.
The day may be dark and threatening, the sun concealed in gloomy banks
of cloud, rain falling, or thick mists obscuring the valley; each and
all are powerless to dampen his ardor or to effect his extreme optimism.
He clings to his creed with persistent closeness, asserting valiantly
the ecstasy of finding one’s self alive and emphasizing the statement by
a perfect wave of melodious argument.
There are hours when he sings with such force that his whole little body
catches the key-note and natural rhythm; the melody becomes compounded
of his very substance, body of his body and soul of his soul. It is an
inundation of musical notes, cascadic, cataclysmic, the tide of song
rising till it drowns his personality; he is no longer a bird but an
animated song.
My little neighbor is a pattern of husbandly devotion, a lover-husband
over whom coming events are already casting tender shadows before, the
special event in this instance being located in a crevice beneath the
eaves of the house.
Wren babies had not left the first nest when Jenny Wren’s husband was
hard at work upon a second house, which was ready for occupancy before
the first family were self-supporting. This was an admirable arrangement
in the way of time-saving, as eggs are often laid in the second nest
before the first is vacated.
Though the new house lacked the freshness of coloring and the
picturesqueness of the swing of a nest in the sunshine, Jenny Wren made
no complaint of being cooped up in the darkness, and as to her husband,
he was quite as well pleased with the glamor and wonder of its art as if
it had been wound with blossoms and sprinkled with star-dust. A bird
with different tastes might have urged that it was only a little hole in
the house-jet, yet everything in life depends upon the point of view
from which you regard it. Judged from the wren standpoint, it was
considered admirably adapted to the family needs, nor could the most
critical observer fail to see here a literal illustration of that
familiar truth: Happiness is from within.
Standing upon a ladder I counted eight eggs as my eyes became gradually
accustomed to the partial darkness within the nest; the dark, vinaceous
spots laid on so thickly as to conceal or obliterate the original color,
thus helping to hide them more securely. In the long brooding days, when
Jenny’s little answering heart is preoccupied and silent, the hours are
sometimes long and lonely to her mate. At these times he has been known
to devote his spare moments to building a nest simply for his own
pleasure. Many instances of this remarkable habit are recorded of the
English wren, the explanation offered being that the odd nests are for
the purpose of deceiving the parasitical cuckoo.
There is also a supposition that the bird’s active nature finds relief
in work, being urged on by the increasing lonesomeness. This wren-trait
reaches a climax in the marsh wrens, with whom the building habit
becomes a passion.
Nor is it restricted to the wren family, many instances being recorded
where other species have beguiled the waiting days by an imitative
housekeeping.
The house phoebe has been known to build a second nest while its mate
was brooding. To all appearances this was an instance of over-developed
domestic tastes. Nor did the experiment end with the completion of the
duplicate nest upon which the male bird sat regularly for several hours
daily.
Wrens do not take kindly to double houses, their warlike nature seeming
to revolt against living friendly with near neighbors. A pair of wrens
that was well established in an unoccupied martin house made it very
uncomfortable for the later arrivals. While the martins were abroad
after material for the nest the wrens sallied forth in an utterly
vindictive spirit and scratched out all their neighbors had constructed.
After singing a triumphant song with much parade they wisely retired to
their own domicile to be on the defensive.
Wiser wrens, with an instinctive knowledge that an ounce of prevention
is worth a pound of cure, are known to have the forethought when the box
in which they build contains two compartments, to fill up one of them,
thus avoiding the risk of troublesome neighbors. Wrens have been known
to nest in a human skull. Others with less questionable taste, have gone
to housekeeping in an old boot, a watering pot, a coat sleeve; in gourds
and baskets, jars and water pipes, while another pair made a nest in the
lower part of a stone vase in the garden. There was a hole for drainage
in the bottom of the vase, and through this hole they found, beneath
some shavings, a circular space just suited for a nest. The vase was not
filled with plants until the domestic affairs of the wren family were
happily concluded.
The delicate swaying hammock of the oriole is sometimes used for a
second nesting.
There was bitter disappointment in wren circles earlier in the season
when, with the presumption of inexperience, the pump was filled
regularly with coarse twigs, which were promptly dislodged at nightfall.
Undiscouraged at this defeat, the morning hours were utilized for
rebuilding with a persistency well worthy a more intelligent effort;
they worked and sang, sang and worked, until a cigar box was nailed to a
tree for their special accommodation. This was nearly full of twigs when
they decided that the building-site was ineligible, a decision hastened
by the fact that just at this opportune time a glass fruit can was left
upon the piazza shelf. No sooner was this glass house seen than its
possibilities were realized and plans were quickly made for a kind of
crystal palace experiment. Under other circumstances this might have
been a dangerous precedent, as certain unneighborly conduct toward their
little brothers of the air had at various times fairly invited the
throwing of stones. The can was half full of tiny fagots, and Jenny was
thinking of settling upon the mattress of wood fibre when the thrifty
housewife turned them adrift summarily, well aware that this kind of
housekeeping, within easy range of neighboring cats, would not be
successful. Before such supreme content, who could have the heart to
undeceive them? And yet, the can was turned upside down before they
could be made to understand the situation. Like Thoreau, they did not
wish to practice self-denial unless it was quite necessary!
After the failure of this crystal scheme, it was a difficult matter for
Jenny to make up her mind as to a further preference, but when she
really decided it was with such entire good faith as left no doubt in
her lover’s mind as to her judgment. This was more flattering as it was
his own choice, their last year’s home thoroughly remodeled, to which he
had repeatedly called her attention, vainly. So the hole in the house
jet at least answered the question, “Where are the birds in last year’s
nests?” for the wrens moved in regularly, the tenor having a perch upon
a projecting bracket where Jenny joined him, a regular little termagant,
scolding with all her might whenever the kittens looked that way.
Marsh wrens, small brown birds, with barred wings and tail, breed in or
about the swamps and marshes of Lake Champlain.
They are intensely interesting from their habit of constructing several
nests but one of which is utilized for housekeeping. After the real nest
is made and the first egg laid, the male stays closely at home busying
itself with building several nests, which are to all appearances
entirely superfluous. In locating these he does not go beyond the
immediate neighborhood of the true nest.
Some have thought that these sham nests are used as hiding places for
the male, a Lilliputian watch tower or guard house, from which close
watch is kept over the home property. Whether Mrs. Marsh Wren really
needs such close watching, being more inclined to flirt than the
ordinary feathered spouse, or because she is a better wife, so
infinitely precious that she must be guarded from every side, is, as
yet, an unsolved question. “Love holds the key to all unknown,” and
though there is little to admire in a deportment made fine by compulsory
measures, no doubt both parties understand the situation, which is quite
enough for practical purposes. These nests, conspicuous from their size
and exposed position, are securely attached to the upright swaying
reeds, some of which penetrate their substance. They are lined with soft
grasses and have an entrance at one side, often nearer the bottom than
the top. Mr. Burroughs, who has found the marsh wren’s nest surrounded
by half a dozen make-believes, says the gushing, ecstatic nature of the
bird expresses itself in this way. It is simply so full of life and joy
and of parental instinct that it gives vent to itself in constructing
sham nests; the generous-hearted creature being willing to build and
support more homes than can be furnished or utilized.
Entering the Lake Shore drive at St. Albans Bay, where dense tangles
border the swamp beyond, you are sure to hear a song that is
unmistakably wrennish. You have glimpses also of a small brown bird
bubbling over with a nervous energy that betrays itself in every note he
utters. Wait quietly and he approaches, but go one step in his direction
and he recedes to the swamp where human foot may not follow.
Push your boat up the creek, the only avenue leading to his abode, that
tantalizing song leading on meanwhile like the Pied Piper of Hamelin,
though unlike the latter there is no disillusioning at the end.
Red-winged blackbirds take wing as you enter the twilight of soft green
and amber shade and the far-off music of their jangle-bells becomes less
musical, the males striving “to recommend themselves by music, like some
awkward youth who serenades his mistress with a jewsharp,” and using the
air or the alder tops as a parade ground upon which to exhibit their
musical evolutions. And yet you are witness to many a voluntary bit of
sentiment that will increase your interest in this scarlet epauletted
regiment, descendants of the dusky tribe that anchored long ago in this
peaceful haven, going out and coming in with the tide until the legend
of their coming is as vague and shadowy and misty as that of the
golden-fleece voyageurs—the Argonauts. They ebbed and flowed with the
stream; came at the proper time and season without knowing why; anchored
and launched their ebony ships when it was time for sailing.
Here and there along this waterway the branches clasp hands above the
creek, forming an arch of green within which vines sufficiently elegant
to warrant exclusiveness cling in unaffected grace to the alders,
without inquiring or caring as to the pedigree of their support. It is
sufficient for them that the support is there.
A whole half mile along the stream and trees and bushes disappear,
leaving a dense mass of reeds, the marsh wren’s “ain countrie,” out of
which he is never at his best and to which he gives you no welcome.
Birds, like persons, have wonderful powers of concentration upon one
topic, woe be to you if that topic happens to be yourself!
Every denizen of the swamp regards you with suspicion, watching each
movement as closely as if you were a dangerous character traveling under
an alias, and could not be trusted to sail upon this ruddy ocean in
which their lordships have anchored their private yachts. Push your boat
far in among the reeds and cat-tails, into the sea of shadows over which
no sluggish current sends a ripple, and certain globular nests in the
tangled reeds reward your search. Push your fingers within these nests
and in one only, here and there, will you find from five to ten dark
eggs, a rich reward for all your trouble.
Meanwhile the “neighbors,” and the marsh wren generally has numbers of
them, have doubtless been charming you with their bubbling, gurgling
song, always half the colony singing at once, or, one bird rising above
the reeds gives the order, as it were, and the whole colony joins in the
chorus. The song is quite beyond their control; they seem filled to
overflowing with an inexhaustible supply of music, which trickles down
the reeds, like gathered-up drops of water charged with music.
“Sometimes, like a mine of melody, it explodes within them and lifts
them from the dark recesses of the flags into the air above.”
Nelly Hart Woodworth.