of the human biped, and hold with Eben Holden that “Men are the most terrible of all critters, an’ the meanest. They’re the only critters that kill fer fun,” and it has become instinctive for them to act accordingly. However, we had not yet arrived at the end of our experience with the sociable bird world, for it seemed that we were to carry a full cargo of stowaways, for the next arrivals were six or seven juncos savoring of frost and wintry weather, notwithstanding the heat of the autumnal sun. Miss Merriam has quaintly styled these busy little birds: “Gray robed monks and nuns,” though their character does not cleverly carry out that conception, for they are a pugnacious lot of feathers and blood, and there were pitch battles going on at every hatch corner, the juncos playing the part of the aggressor every time, turning and conspicuously flaunting their stylish white tail markings in the face of their opponents. The next advent was that of a tiny house wren, who seemed to have had a good deal of his natural belligerency blown out of him, and was content to make a peaceful breakfast on the Canada soldiers that were swarming about. Wrens are noticeable for the interest that they take in human belongings, and love to make their home among them. At Marquette I was shown a nest built in an overshoe inadvertently left in the crotch of an apple tree, and which, I am glad to report, the owner left undisturbed when she learned by whom it was pre-empted. I thought of our little stowaway when I saw the nest and wondered how much he could have told me of its construction. Some one has mentioned a nest built in an old coat sleeve, and Audubon tells us of a pair that nested in his parlor, paying him rent in song music. The wren has also received much “honorable mention” in history, Aristotle being the first, I believe, to call him the King of Birds, possibly because of the legend that tells us that to gain his sovereignty in a trial of flight he concealed himself on the back of an eagle who was one of the contestants, and after that bird of mighty wing power had reached his limit the wren, arising from his seat among the eagle’s feathers, easily flew much higher, thus gaining the race and title. Perhaps not the first time that high places have been arrived at through duplicity. But, in justice to his species, mention should be made of the myth that asserts that in ye golden time the wren was the only bird brave enough to enter heaven and bring down fire to earth for the benefit of the mortals. In this philanthropical work he scorched off his feathers, so the other birds made a donation party and each contributed some spare feathers to the singed benefactor (but we notice that their generosity, like that of some others, was confined to donating their plainest apparel), all but the owl, who refused to part with a single quill, but who for his stinginess was at once ostracised from good society, and forced to make