The wren shall come next. Of the wren, as of
the robin, it may be said that in a not unfavourable year its song
may be heard in every month, but not so certainly as that of the
robin. It is pleasant to make a point of hearing a wren sing at
any rate once even in the most silent month, but there are times
when this is not accomplished without trouble and anxiety. In a
fairly mild January, however, the hearing of a wren's song should
be assured. The wren's song is a succession of rapid notes,
forming a long musical sentence, that is repeated again and again
at intervals. The full sentence is a long one, but the bird very
often begins it and leaves off in the middle or even after the
first few notes: a good example of what we were taught at school
to call " aposiopesis " ; like the woman who, after speaking for a
time at a public meeting, began a sentence with the words "But
still ... ," then stopped and sat down. But when a wren is in good
form he sings, as it was said the young Queen Victoria danced at a
Court function in Paris, " with decision, and right through to the
end."
To appreciate the song, however, the person
of the wren, as well as its voice, must be taken into account. The
song is a good loud one, but when considered in relation to the
tiny body, it is positively mighty. " Valiant," "resounding," are
epithets that I have applied when listening to a wren singing: and
a little boy, whose mother had taught him to be familiar with the
song, spoke, while doing lessons in an open-air parlour, of "that
shattering wren." Great as the effort of the song seems to be, a
wren at the height of the season will repeat it at short intervals
for a long time without tiring.
There are individual wren songs that stand up like little
peaks in memory.
Once, in days of youthful ignorance, a loud
song proceeding from a thick cypress arrested my attention. It was
long ago, in March 1884. I wondered what bird this was, and struck the branches with my
stick. Out flew an unabashed wren, to perch elsewhere, and repeat
the singing. The contrast between the size of the body and the
strength of the song impressed itself on me, then and there, never
to be forgotten.
There was another occasion, some years later.
We had a cottage in the Itchen Valley, and had gone there
early on a Saturday morning after a weary week in London; it was
about 8 o'clock
on a fine warm morning. I had just arrived, and stood in the
doorway that opened on to the little lawn. Escaped from London at
this season of the year, on such a day and in such a place, with
the week-end prospect before me, I was indeed "standing on the top
·of golden hours": in front, some ten yards away, was a poplar
tree, and from it a wren sprang into the air, and, singing in an
ecstasy as he flew, passed straight over me and over the cottage
roof to some other place of bliss on the farther side: "like a
blessing," said one who was with me.
Wordsworth in the " Prelude" records an
incident, differing in mood and setting, but similar in kind, in
which the song of a single wren animated a ruined chapel. This was
remembered, and added to that store of " emotion recollected in
tranquillity," which he gives as a definition of poetry.
A third memory is of recent date. The
incident occurred in the greenhouse, where a wren was in the habit
of coming and going through open windows or ventilators. I heard
the wren singing with even more than usual violence, perched
somewhere among the plants. The cause was plain-another wren was
singing outside, and there was a song combat. When two birds in
neighbouring territories are singing in rivalry, it is the rule
that they do not sing together: each in turn listens while the
other sings; then the bird that has listened replies. So it was
now. The greenhouse wren was used to seeing men about the plants,
but besides this familiarity, it was so intensely occupied in
listening to the song outside and then exerting itself to the
utmost in reply, that it took no notice of my approach. I watched
it for some time at a distance of not more than two or three feet,
perhaps even less. The strophe and antistrophe went on; the
attitude of my wren when listening was intent and still; when it
replied the animation and vehemence were such that it seemed as if
this little atom of life might be shattered by its own energy.
Not .always, however, does the wren's song
give this impression of force. On a bleak day in autumn, when
chill wind is blowing, a wren's song will unexpectedly be heard,
and at a distance will sound thin. Wordsworth describes this
aspect of wren song ;
" To the wind she sometimes gives A slender,
unexpected strain."
It must not be inferred from the space given
to it here that the wren's song is thought the best we have. It is
a good song, clear, distinct, musical, and pleasant; it is
elaborate rather than simple, and is well turned out. There are,
how ever, other songs of higher quality, but the personality and
song of the wren are so familiar and give so much entertainment
that they cannot be passed over lightly.