The burden of each bird’s mind in spring being, “I must build me a nest,” let us follow the wakeful wren that came on a stormy morning to his old home. He evidently was sure of his mate, and was for four days ceaselessly at work. Perhaps he found odd moments when he could eat, as he constantly did to sing, but never a leisurely meal was his, I am very sure. The old homestead must be made habitable again. And how he worked! All the old rubbish of last summer was pulled from the box, and none of it taken back, I fancy. While I watched the busy bird two days after his arrival, I recalled an occurrence of last summer, and wondered if there might be a repetition of it, with my aid; and at all events the bird’s movements would tend to show whether it was the same wren or not. So I placed tempting material for nest-building on a piece of very thin board, and set it afloat in a huge basin. It was directly discovered; the old wren was looking for it, I am sure now, but last year’s tactics were not repeated as a whole. Then the bird alighted on the strands of hemp and submerged them and almost itself, and only after many trials hit upon the plan of dipping down and seizing a strand while on the wing. Would it do this now, a year later? I was all impatience while the wren flittered nervously about the basin, but was encouraged by its contemplative manner. At last it attempted to alight on the mass, and I felt angry at its stupidity and my own overconfidence. But no! it proved only to be an attempt; last year’s experience was remembered, and strand after strand was deftly picked up while the bird was flying. I am confident now that I am listening, while I write, to the very wren that comforted me last summer.