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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.