The bluebirds and the house wrens more frequently come into collision.
A few years ago I put up a little bird-house in the back end of my
garden for the accommodation of the wrens, and every season a pair of
bluebirds looked into the tenement and lingered about several days,
leading me to hope that they would conclude to occupy it. But they
finally went away, and later in the season the wrens appeared, and,
after a little coquetting, were regularly installed in their old
quarters, and were as happy as only wrens can be.
One of our younger poets, Myron Benton, saw a little bird
"Ruffled with whirlwind of his ecstasies,"
which must have been the wren, as I know of no other bird that so
throbs and palpitates with music as this little vagabond. And the pair
I speak of seemed exceptionally happy, and the male had a small
tornado of song in his crop that kept him "ruffled" every moment in
the day. But before their honeymoon was over the bluebirds returned. I
knew something was wrong before I was up in the morning. Instead of
that voluble and gushing song outside the window, I heard the wrens
scolding and crying at a fearful rate, and on going out saw the
bluebirds in possession of the box.
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