The poor wrens were in despair;
they wrung their hands and tore their hair, after the wren fashion,
but chiefly did they rattle out their disgust and wrath at the
intruders. I have no doubt that, if it could have been interpreted, it
would have proven the rankest and most voluble Billingsgate ever
uttered. For the wren is saucy, and he has a tongue in his head that
can outwag any other tongue known to me.
The bluebirds said nothing, but the male kept an eye on Mr. Wren; and,
when he came to near, gave chase, driving him to cover under the
fence, or under a rubbish heap or other object, where the wren would
scold and rattle away, while his pursuer sat on the fence or the
pea-brush waiting for him to reappear.
Days passed, and the usurpers prospered and the outcasts were
wretched; but the latter lingered about, watching and abusing their
enemies, and hoping, no doubt, that things would take a turn, as they
presently did. The outraged wrens were fully avenged. The mother
bluebird had laid her full complement of eggs and was beginning to
set, when one day, as her mate was perched above her on the barn,
along came a boy with one of those wicked elastic slings and cut him
down with a pebble.
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