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THE SOUTHERN WORLD, JULY 15, 1882,
12
“ The world, dear child, la u we take it, and
Ufe. he mire, la what we make It."
FORFEITN.
They aent him round tlio circle fair,
To how before the prettiest there.
I’m bound to aay the choice he made
A creditable taate dlaplayed;
Although—I can't aay what It meant—
The little maid looked Ill-content.
Hie taak was then anew begun—
To kneel before the wittiest one.
Once more tbst little maid sought be,
And went him down upon his knee, .
She bent her eyes upon the floor—
I think shethought the game a bore.
He circled then his sweet behest
To kiss the one he loved the best.
For all she frowned, for all she chid,
He kissed that little maid, be did;
And then—though why, I cant decide—
The little maid looked satisfied.
—The Century.
Written specially for the Southern World.
UTTLE JENNY WHEN.
- BY HELEN HARCOURT.
Everybody love* her—modest, merry, lit
tle Jenny, hopping about so jauntily in the
brushwood or hedge-rows she loves so well,
looking more like a feathered mouse, than a
real, live bird. There is no need to describe
her soft, brown, Quaker-like dress, for every
man, woman and child knows her, and as we
have said, loves her too. There are some
birds and animals, who seem for some unex
plained reason, to go straight to the soft
spot in the great human heart all over the
world, and of these unconscious favorities
Jenny Wren is one; we in America,call her
Jenny, but in Great Britain, her name is Kit
ty Wren, because of her little song of “chit-
chit,” which she sings as she searches about
for her food.
Early in the spring-time, Jenny comes
dnnei ng i n to our gardens, u tteri ng her quick,
cheery cull, and flirting about her quaint
little tail in an absurdly consequential man
ner ; ever and anon site pauses in her busy
search, and balancing her tiny body on a
branch, pours forth in the gladness of her
heart, a cheerful burst of song, full of sweet
ness and melody, a song of such powerful
tones as one would scarce believe could be
long to such a very small minstrel.
A good breakfast, or dinner or supper, a
gleam of sunshine, a gentle breeze rustling
among the foliage, for ull these gentle Jenny
gives thanks in a joyous burst of melody that
wins our lioart and makes us wish to be
friend her. And fortunately it is no diffi
cult thing to do this, for Mim Jenny's first
business when she comes back , to us in the
beautiful spring-time, is to select a site and
build herself a house thereon, and being de
cidedly an eccentric individual as regards
her building place, it is often in our power
to assist her decision.
Out in the wild woods, far away from the
haunts of mankind, the wren makes her nest
in the hollow of trees, or beneath over-hang
ing rocks, but thousands of our little friends
prefer the society of their human fellow
creatures, and these—well, their eccentricity
is astonishing, to say the least—barns, hay
ricks, hedges, waterpipes, the eaves of
houses—these are their usual choice, but
what shall we say when Miss Jenny delib
erately chooses to build her nest in the dead
body of a hawk which has been nailed
against the barn door, or in the throat of a
dead calf hung up on a tree, or inside a
pump, so that she has to go in and out
through the spout, so as to gain access to her
eggs and young? Yet not once or twice, but
many times, has our friend Jenny elected to
bring up her family in these and similar odd
places.
The wrens are saucy little creatures, yet
never, we venture say, were they more au
daciously impudent than on the occasion we
are about to relate. One hot day in June, a
field laborer hung up his coat in ashed, and
not needing it, forgot to remove it for seve
ral days. When he did finally take it down
from the nail on which it hung, he found to
his amazement, that one of the sleeves was
completely filled up with sticks, grass and
feathers, forming the finished nest of a
wren I The loving couple to whose laudable
industry he owed this strange sleeve lining,
wore so utterly indignant at his unreason
able conduct in carrying off their house,
that they flew around bis head and pursued
him across the fields, scolding all the while
in most energetic language.
Perhaps it is because Jenny Wren is so
merry, so audacious, so impudent, that we
all love her, and that in evidence of this
wide-spread feeling, we see so many little
bird-houses perched about in our parks and
gardens, inviting her to take up herabode
therein, and it is not often that these little
houses remain untenanted, “to let or for
sale.” And they who provide these are wise,
in serving Jenny they serve themselves, for
she will pay her rent in full, day by day,
and many are the fruits and flowers that her
ready little beak will save from the ravages
of worms and insects, neither for the one
season only, for she and her young one will
return to the same spot year after year.
If she cannot find a house ready for fur
nishing, she will content herself as we have
seen,—with one less stylish in appearance;
an old hat nailed on a wall is not despised,
neither a flower-pot, nor a cocoanut-shell,
nor a hollow gourd.
The nest itself is deserving of notice, for
Jenny is one of the “dome-builders;” that
is, she can, and usually does build it as a
dome, but she does not always take the
trouble to do so, she has lazy freaks some
times, just like the rest of us bigger bipeds,
and searches about until she finds a cavity
with a natural dome or roof, and here ghe
will construct an open nest, but if no such
situation can be found, then the dome or
arched top is added, so that in either case,
there is always a roof.
Jenny is not more particular as to the ma
terials of which she builds her nest, than os
to its location; quantity seems to be her
chief anxiety, rather than quality, grasses
mosses, lichens, straw, leaves, paper, make
up its bulk, but the lining is always smooth
and warm, being made of feathers and hair,
and in this snug cavity she lays her six or
eight tiny white eggs, sprinkled over with
minute red specks.
Another odd thing about our little friend
is that she will commence with great energy
to build her nest, then suddenly desert it,
choose a new site and begin again; desert
the second when half completed, and begin
a third and even a fourth before she is finally
content to settle down os a staid matron.
“Why is this?" the naturalists ask each
other; some say the bird has discovered the
presence of an enemy, a shrike, a snake, a
cat; others, that these unfinished nests are
the work of young wrens, unversed as to the
ways of the world, and its requirements,
who, learning better as they work, seek to
improve on their first attempts; but how
ever, it may be, the fact remains.
Wilson tells us of an amusing incident
which fell under his own notice, of a pair of
wrens, who built a nest in a box just inside
his window, two eggs were already laid, and
the happy pair were doubtless rejoicing over
the thought of the coming brood, when
alas! the wife fell a victim to a wicked cat.
The bereaved husband for a while sat on
the nest and sang lustily, no doubt with the
idea of recalling his lost mate; then he flew
to the top of the house, of the stable, of a
willow tree, and everywhere his sweet voice
sang the recall.
After sokne hours thus spent in vain, the
poor little fellow returned to the nest and
sat on its edge, uttering a low, mournful
note, ever and anon peering about with his
bright eyes, in search of his missing mate,
but at last, discouraged, he flew away.
Wilson never expected to see him again,
but on the afternoon of the second day he
returned; he departed a mourning widower,
he came back a merry bridegroom. “The
king is dead! Long live the king! ”
The new wife was a little shy of the box
containing the nest, but finally entered it,
and then it seemed as if the bridegroom
knew not how to express his joy; swelling
his little throat to bursting, he strutted up
and down in an ccstacy o( delight
Then the new wife came out, and they
seemed to hold consultation, whioh ended by
both entering the box and iustantly com
mencing an ejectment of its contents, and
out rolled the dead wife’s two eggs, down
fell the sticks and grasses, away flew the
hairs and feathers until the box was empty.
Then thd complaisant husband, and the
jealous second wife flew away, and returned
with the nucleus of a new nest; this com
pleted, they succeeded in raising a fine
brood, who might truthfully have said, “we
are seven 1 ”
Away back in the “long, long ago," we
find the modest little wren figuring in an
cient rhyme, as "King of all birds."
And this is how it won its proud title;
Once upon a time, the birds of all sizes
and degrees, assembled to choose a king,
and it was agreed that he who soared thQ
highest, should be elected to that royal dig
nity.
At the given signal, away went all the
birds up into the air, up, up, up they
mounted, but highest of all went the eagle,
who after soaring as high as his weary wings
would permit, exultingly proclaimed him
self the “King of the birds."
But lo, what is this? E’re the proud
words have left his mouth, a tiny little bird
is seen far above him!
In vain the angry eagle beat the air, his
tired wings will carry him no further, and
slowly he descends to the earth, while the
humble wren, among the smallest of birds,
is proclaimed their King, and wit and intel
lect have won the victory over mere physi
cal force.
All unseen and unsuspected, the tiny
wren had perched between the eagle’s
shoulders, and when the latter could mount
no higher, he, fresh as when the race began,
had only to rise, and soar at ease far above
his gigantic rival.
We have said that Jenny Wren is loved all
over the world, but we should have excepted
the Roman Catholics of Ireland, for the
hatred bom by the lower classes of those be
longing to thatchurch, towards this diminu
tive bird is intense.
On St. Stephen’s Day, in the south of Ire
land, there is a ceremony called the “kill
ing of the wren."
The boys, who are the chief actors, carry
about a wren, gaily decorated with ribbons,
and tied fast to a bush; they dance and sing
about it, and later in the day they will kill
the poor little terrified bird, and this done,
they march through the town and country,
knocking at every door with the announce
ment, that “the wren is in its coffin and
money is needed to bury it.”
And throughout all the year, no Catholic
of the lower classes omits the chance of kit
ing or persecuting a wren; ask them the
reason of their hatred, and if you are a
Protestant, they will merely say that “it
hasadropo’ the devil’s blood in it.”
But if you are of their own religion, this
is the story they will tell you.
During one of the Catholic rebellions, a
large body of Protestant soldiers lay down
to sleep; being weary and worn out, their
sentinels also slept at their posts. ■
The rebels discovering the unprotected
condition of their enemies, stole softly upon
them, and would have killed them; but
just at the critical moment a little wren
sprang upon a drum, and tapped it vigor
ously with its, beak, whereupon,'the drum
mer, sleeping near to it, awoke and leaping
to his feet saw the enemy close at hand; to
rouse his comrades was the work of an in
stant and the rebel surprisers were them
selves so surprised as to be ignominously put
to flight. For this defeat, the Catholic
peasants liold that one little wren responsi
ble, and this whole race have inherited the
hatred lavished upon the one true offender.
May's l'nnornmn.
Church Union.
Mny Dinsmore was at tiincB the most dis
agreeable little girl that one would care to
know. If everything went just according
to her wishes, why, then May could he as
sweet tempered ns anybody, but let her will
be crossed, and instantly she was what some
persons would cull a “ tartar.” She expected
everybody to give in to her; she wanted all
the bestclothing and playthings; and if her
parents were going out she always cried to
accompany them.
One Saturday evening May went to bed in
a very bad humor. A present of a new silk
dress had been given to Clara, the sister two
years younger than herself, and this was
why the selfish little girl was ill-natured.
She considered that she too ought to have a
silk dress, but nobody had seen fit to give
her one—consequently she was cross to all
her sisters, especially to poor innocent
Clara.
The little girl had been in bed only about
half un hour, when her door opened and a
strange lady entered the room. Stepping to
May she said, “ May, dear, would you like
to come with me to see a panorama?”
Ever eager to go out, May jumped from the
bed and began to dress. 8he did not know
the lady who had extended the invitation
but her voice wus soft and kind and she was
not afraid to accompany her. In a very
short time she was ready. Then out of the
house they went and into a carriage which
stood by the door. Half an hour’s ride
brought them to a brilliantly-lighted hall,
which they entered. The hall was full of
people, but May had no time to notice them,
for immediately a curtain was drawn up,
exhibiting the first picture of the panorama.
It was a sort of moving picture—that is, the
LITTLE JENNY WREN.