"
Out of their nests started the children to see Florence standing over
another nest in a trellis, in which was a family of little baby wrens,
opening their small beaks and clamoring to be fed.
"Sh! Sh!" Dimple said, softly. "Don't let's scare them, poor little
things. See, there is the mother bird. She is distressed because we have
found her babies. Oh Rock, don't let any one else know they are here,
for they might hurt them."
"Let us go away now," said Rock, in a whisper. "The poor mother bird is
flying around, and is so troubled. She doesn't know that we wouldn't
harm her little ones for anything." So they tiptoed away and left the
mother in possession.
"What kind of bird was it?" Florence asked, in a low voice.
"Why, don't you know? That was Jenny Wren," returned Dimple, more
accustomed to creatures of woods and fields.
"Was it really Jenny Wren?" exclaimed Florence, delightedly. "I'm so
glad I've seen her."
"Didn't you ever see her before? You have heard Mr. Wren sing, haven't
you? Oh, how he sings! I think house-wrens are such dear, dear birds. We
always put up boxes and cans and such things for them, for we like to
have them around, and they can build their nests in quite small places.
The other big birds try to drive them away sometimes, but we always try
to protect them.
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