which I sat, and a
streak of blue lightning almost flashed in my very face. One day, just
as I had passed the tree in which the cavity was located, I heard the
wren scream desperately; turning, I saw the little vagabond fall into
the grass with the wrathful bluebird fairly upon him; the latter had
returned just in time to catch him, and was evidently bent on punishing
him well. But in the squabble in the grass the wren escaped and took
refuge in the friendly evergreen. The bluebird paused for a moment with
outstretched wings looking for the fugitive, then flew away. A score of
times during the month of June did I see the wren taxing every energy to
get away from the bluebird. He would dart into the stone wall, under the
floor of the summer-house, into the weeds,--anywhere to hide his
diminished head. The bluebird, with his bright coat, looked like an
officer in uniform in pursuit of some wicked, rusty little street gamin.
Generally the favorite house of refuge of the wrens was the little
spruce, into which their pursuer made no attempt to follow them. The
female would sit concealed amid the branches, chattering in a scolding,
fretful way, while the male with his eye upon his tormentor would perch
on the topmost shoot and sing. Why he sang at such times, whether in
triumph and derision, or to keep his courage up and reassure his mate, I
could not make out. When his song was suddenly cut short, and I glanced
to see him dart down into the spruce, my eye usually caught a twinkle of
blue wings hovering near. The wrens finally gave up the fight, and their
enemies reared their second brood in peace.

THE SONG SPARROW

The first song sparrow's nest I observed in the spring of 1881 was in a
field under a fragment of a board, the board being raised from the
ground a couple of inches by two poles. It had its full complement of
eggs, and probably sent forth a brood of young birds, though as to this
I cannot speak positively, as I neglected to observe it further. It was
well sheltered and concealed, and was not easily come at by any of its
natural enemies, save snakes and weasels. But concealment often avails
little. In May, a song sparrow, which had evidently met with disaster
earlier in the season, built its nest in a thick mass of woodbine
against the side of my house, about fifteen feet from the ground.
Perhaps it took the hint from its cousin the English sparrow. The nest
was admirably placed, protected from the storm