"There is precious little fun in this sort of thing," growled he one day when paying a brief visit to Mr. John and his spouse. "One can never go near the nest but open fly six red mouths asking for food. Its peep, peep, peep, from morning till night; hurry, hurry, hurry, eat and bring up again; to cram, cram, cram down six long, red throats the whole day long. There are some days," with a sigh, "when I really long to be a bachelor again." "Oh, you do," said Mrs. John, with a meaning glance at her husband, "There are other fathers of families, I dare say, Mr. Wren, who, if they _dared_ would say the same thing. But," smoothing her apron, "you have such a shiftless creature for a wife that I don't much wonder. Jenny, I presume, stays at home and lets you do all the fetching and carrying." "Indeed," replied Mr. Wren, who wished he had not complained at all, "you are very much mistaken, Mrs. John. Jenny can find more grubs, worms, and beetles in one minute than I can in ten. She is always on the go, and seldom complains, though I must admit she does a deal of scolding." "She wouldn't be a member of _our_ family if she didn't," proudly said Mrs. John, "my mother----" but Mr. Wren, who had heard that story a score of times, suddenly remembered Mrs. Jenny would be expecting him at home, said "good-by" and hastily flew away. Pierre, the first born, was now old enough to fly, but timidly stayed in the nest. Mrs. Wren noted with great anxiety that no sooner did she leave the tin-pot but up popped six little heads, and out upon a curious world gazed twelve little bead-like eyes. "Do be good children while I am gone," she would entreat, when ready for market, "do keep your heads inside of the house. Pierre, put your head down in the nest instantly, do you hear me!" and little Mrs. Wren would stand on the edge of the tin-pot and fussily cry _krup_, _up_, _up_, which in Wren language means, you naughty, naughty, birds. "I think I am big enough to get out of here," said Pierre one day as he watched her fly away, "bugs and worms must taste a heap better fresh from the ground. I'm tired of baby-food, I am." "So am I," piped Emmett, "you try your wings first, Pierre, and if you can fly I will come after." "Well, here goes," said Pierre, poising himself on the rim of the pot as he had seen his parents do, "watch me, boys, watch me fly." "Well, we are watching you," they chorused, as he spread his wings and flapped them a number of times, "why don't you go?" "I--I--" stammered Pierre, "oh, there's a cat!" and into the pot he darted and down they all huddled like so many frightened mice. Presently Bobbie raised his head and peeped out. "I don't see any cat," said he, "and I don't believe you did, either, Pierre. You were only afraid to fly." Pierre looked a little sheepish. "If you fellows think it so easy, try it," was the mocking reply. "There is nobody here to hinder you."