THE COMMON WREN.branch with flowersEverybodyknows and loves the wee brown Wren with its active, pert ways and cheerful rattling song, which is heard nearly the whole of the year round.“Jenny” or “Kitty” Wren, as the bird is often called, is to be met with almost everywhere by sea-shore and riverside, in the cultivated garden and on the barren waste, along the plain and on the mountain side, in thick woods and treeless deserts where there is little else than rocks for it to alight upon. Whether the sun be shining, flowers blooming, and food plentiful, or the ground be wreathed in a thick blanket of snow and the world a picture of desolation and a place of hunger, the littlebird is ever cheerful, active, and gay. As the poets have it:“When icicles hang dripping from the roofPipes his perennial lay.”Its song is surprisingly loud and clear for such a tiny musician, especially when heard only a few inches away, as I have heard it on several occasions whilst crouching inside some of my hiding contrivances waiting to secure a photograph of some shy bird or beast. It is delivered both upon the wing and when the musician is at rest upon a branch or stone.A Wren’s call notes sound something liketit, tit-it, tit-it-it, tit-it-it-it, uttered so quickly as to resemble the winding-up of a clock.Even in the depths of the very severest winter weather, “Jenny” Wren refuses to be “pauperised” like the Robin, the Blackbird, and the Song Thrush, and disdaining the help of man, hunts all day long for its own support in a spirit of hopeful independence. It does not matter whether it is an old moss-grown stone wall, a stack of loose firewood, or a shrubbery, in and out goes the little nut-brown bird from cold grey morn till glooming eve, examining every crackand cranny for some lurking morsel of insect life.Illustration: Wren's nestWREN’S NEST AMONGSTIVY GROWING ON THE TRUNKOF A TREE.It is strange how such an innocent and altogether praiseworthy little bird should have come to occupy such an unenviable position in bird folklore. The common names of this species in most European languages assign kingly dignity to it, and it obtained kingship of all the birds by a mean kind of trick. A parliament of birds agreed that the one that could fly highestshould be king. The Eagle easily mounted to the greatest height, but when he had reached it a little brown Wren that had cunningly hidden itself on his back fluttered a little higher, and by this piece of deceit gained the much-coveted honour. Whether for this or some other equally supposed evil deed, the poor bird used to be hunted in our country every Christmas Day by boys and men armed with sticks, and its body publicly exhibited the following day whilst money was begged to bury it.Although the Common Wren is double brooded and rears from four to eight chicks twice each season, the stock never seems to increase much from one year to another. Nobody knows clearly what becomes of all the birds. Of course, natural death must claim a certain number of victims, and I have no doubt that both Owls and rats secure many individuals whilst they are asleep in holes in the thatches of ricks. I have also found several frozen to death during very severe weather in the winter. In order to avoid this last calamity the birds resort to a very ingenious method of roosting. Although they never go in flocks by day, eight ornine members of the species will congregate together in one hole at night, and by a combination of their natural warmth sleep in snug safety.WREN ABOUT TO ENTER NESTWREN ABOUT TO ENTER NESTWITH FOOD FOR CHICKS.A Wren’s nest is very large for the size of the builder, is oval in shape, has a domed top, and a small entrance-hole in front. The bird is famous for the number of nests it builds and never occupies with either eggs or young. These structures, which are not finished inside by a lining of down or feathers, are supposed to be built by the males, and are called “cocks’” nests. Nobody knows with any degree of certainty why they are built. It has been suggested to roost in during cold winter nights, but careful investigations have convinced me that there is nothing in this theory.Boys and girls have an idea that if they thrust an inquiring finger ever so deftly into a Wren’s nest the bird is sure to discover the fact and desert. Without wishing for one moment to do poor “Jenny” an ill turn by destroying this wholesome fear and encouraging investigation, the truth must be told. There is really nothing in the theory. If the structure be deserted, in all probability it is a “cock’s” nest, and wasnever intended to be anything else by its builder.Wrens build in all kinds of situations—amongst ivy growing upon walls and round the trunks of trees, in the thatches and sides of ricks, in holes in walls, in banks amongst rocks, in hedges, amongst the rafters of barns, and even in coils of old rope and disused garments hanging up in sheds.When the nest is built in a mossy bank the outside is generally made of moss; when in the front of a hayrick it is made of straws; and when amongst a few slender twigs sprouting from the place where some large bough has been sawn from the trunk of a tree, of dead leaves. These studied attempts, for such they would seem, at concealment do not, however, always hold good, for I have occasionally found one made of moss in the side of a hayrick.“Jenny” Wren is a very industrious builder. One day I was resting inside an old tumble-down summer-house built into a steep hillside in a Surrey park, when, to my consternation, I saw a big black feather coming straight as a partridge towards me. There was not a breath of wind blowing at the time, andthe whole thing struck me as being most uncanny. Presently it stopped in a little bush, and I saw a wee brown wren behind it. The mystery was at once explained. I sat perfectly still, and in a few moments she brought the erstwhile awesome feather into the summer-house, and after considerable difficulty managed to get the awkward piece of furniture through her tiny front door. She brought along another and another with surprising speed, and before many days passed she had laid six white eggs which were spotted with brownish-red.shed in the woods
branch with flowers
Everybodyknows and loves the wee brown Wren with its active, pert ways and cheerful rattling song, which is heard nearly the whole of the year round.
“Jenny” or “Kitty” Wren, as the bird is often called, is to be met with almost everywhere by sea-shore and riverside, in the cultivated garden and on the barren waste, along the plain and on the mountain side, in thick woods and treeless deserts where there is little else than rocks for it to alight upon. Whether the sun be shining, flowers blooming, and food plentiful, or the ground be wreathed in a thick blanket of snow and the world a picture of desolation and a place of hunger, the littlebird is ever cheerful, active, and gay. As the poets have it:
“When icicles hang dripping from the roofPipes his perennial lay.”
“When icicles hang dripping from the roofPipes his perennial lay.”
“When icicles hang dripping from the roof
Pipes his perennial lay.”
Its song is surprisingly loud and clear for such a tiny musician, especially when heard only a few inches away, as I have heard it on several occasions whilst crouching inside some of my hiding contrivances waiting to secure a photograph of some shy bird or beast. It is delivered both upon the wing and when the musician is at rest upon a branch or stone.
A Wren’s call notes sound something liketit, tit-it, tit-it-it, tit-it-it-it, uttered so quickly as to resemble the winding-up of a clock.
Even in the depths of the very severest winter weather, “Jenny” Wren refuses to be “pauperised” like the Robin, the Blackbird, and the Song Thrush, and disdaining the help of man, hunts all day long for its own support in a spirit of hopeful independence. It does not matter whether it is an old moss-grown stone wall, a stack of loose firewood, or a shrubbery, in and out goes the little nut-brown bird from cold grey morn till glooming eve, examining every crackand cranny for some lurking morsel of insect life.
Illustration: Wren's nestWREN’S NEST AMONGSTIVY GROWING ON THE TRUNKOF A TREE.
WREN’S NEST AMONGSTIVY GROWING ON THE TRUNKOF A TREE.
It is strange how such an innocent and altogether praiseworthy little bird should have come to occupy such an unenviable position in bird folklore. The common names of this species in most European languages assign kingly dignity to it, and it obtained kingship of all the birds by a mean kind of trick. A parliament of birds agreed that the one that could fly highestshould be king. The Eagle easily mounted to the greatest height, but when he had reached it a little brown Wren that had cunningly hidden itself on his back fluttered a little higher, and by this piece of deceit gained the much-coveted honour. Whether for this or some other equally supposed evil deed, the poor bird used to be hunted in our country every Christmas Day by boys and men armed with sticks, and its body publicly exhibited the following day whilst money was begged to bury it.
Although the Common Wren is double brooded and rears from four to eight chicks twice each season, the stock never seems to increase much from one year to another. Nobody knows clearly what becomes of all the birds. Of course, natural death must claim a certain number of victims, and I have no doubt that both Owls and rats secure many individuals whilst they are asleep in holes in the thatches of ricks. I have also found several frozen to death during very severe weather in the winter. In order to avoid this last calamity the birds resort to a very ingenious method of roosting. Although they never go in flocks by day, eight ornine members of the species will congregate together in one hole at night, and by a combination of their natural warmth sleep in snug safety.
WREN ABOUT TO ENTER NESTWREN ABOUT TO ENTER NESTWITH FOOD FOR CHICKS.
WREN ABOUT TO ENTER NESTWITH FOOD FOR CHICKS.
A Wren’s nest is very large for the size of the builder, is oval in shape, has a domed top, and a small entrance-hole in front. The bird is famous for the number of nests it builds and never occupies with either eggs or young. These structures, which are not finished inside by a lining of down or feathers, are supposed to be built by the males, and are called “cocks’” nests. Nobody knows with any degree of certainty why they are built. It has been suggested to roost in during cold winter nights, but careful investigations have convinced me that there is nothing in this theory.
Boys and girls have an idea that if they thrust an inquiring finger ever so deftly into a Wren’s nest the bird is sure to discover the fact and desert. Without wishing for one moment to do poor “Jenny” an ill turn by destroying this wholesome fear and encouraging investigation, the truth must be told. There is really nothing in the theory. If the structure be deserted, in all probability it is a “cock’s” nest, and wasnever intended to be anything else by its builder.
Wrens build in all kinds of situations—amongst ivy growing upon walls and round the trunks of trees, in the thatches and sides of ricks, in holes in walls, in banks amongst rocks, in hedges, amongst the rafters of barns, and even in coils of old rope and disused garments hanging up in sheds.
When the nest is built in a mossy bank the outside is generally made of moss; when in the front of a hayrick it is made of straws; and when amongst a few slender twigs sprouting from the place where some large bough has been sawn from the trunk of a tree, of dead leaves. These studied attempts, for such they would seem, at concealment do not, however, always hold good, for I have occasionally found one made of moss in the side of a hayrick.
“Jenny” Wren is a very industrious builder. One day I was resting inside an old tumble-down summer-house built into a steep hillside in a Surrey park, when, to my consternation, I saw a big black feather coming straight as a partridge towards me. There was not a breath of wind blowing at the time, andthe whole thing struck me as being most uncanny. Presently it stopped in a little bush, and I saw a wee brown wren behind it. The mystery was at once explained. I sat perfectly still, and in a few moments she brought the erstwhile awesome feather into the summer-house, and after considerable difficulty managed to get the awkward piece of furniture through her tiny front door. She brought along another and another with surprising speed, and before many days passed she had laid six white eggs which were spotted with brownish-red.
shed in the woods