BOBTAIL WREN

Carolina wrens are regular visitors hereabouts, appearing daily around the cottage, generally in pairs. About all I have to do to spot a wren is step outside or look out the nearest window.

But a bobtail Carolina wren is not something you often see. 

If you know anything about wrens, you understand that long, high-cocked tail is their pride and joy—a well-employed banner, bouncing up and down like an animated metronome to the little bird’s actions and moods. 

A bobtailed wren is simply…preposterous.

I have no idea how this particular bird lost its tail. Accident or near-miss attack by a would-be predator? A literal cracked board "wedgie" suffered while roosting? The scenario will forever remain a mystery. But the little wren didn’t appear in the least handicapped, easily keeping up with its mate as they flittered and poked about the dooryard. In time, the feathers will grow back.

Ultimately, I couldn't decided whether to feel sorry for the tailless wren or the loyal companion—the situation had to be embarrassing for both of 'em.

HOW CAN I KEEP FROM SINGING!

I hear the sweet, tho' far-off hymn

That hails a new creation;

It finds an echo in my soul—

How can I keep from singing?

This sprite of a Carolina wren put on quite a performance recently, just beyond the great room window. Loud, boisterous, the ebullient little songster was simply filled to overflowing with the joys of spring and life—singing of love and territory, the wind in the trees and the sparkle of morning sun on the enduring river flowing just below his perch. It was all there, in every ringing note.

Standing, watching, listening, I couldn't help but be reminded of a beautiful old hymn that's been around at least a century and a half, though is nowadays seldom heard. I also thought, with no small degree of shame, how often I grumble and complain about this ache or that pain, about things I lack, opportunities missed, roads not taken. 

Why do I find it so easy to focus on the negative while overlooking the positive? 

Why can't I be more like the singing wren? After all, we share the same gifts. 

I, too, have those who love me and a place to call home. The wind in the trees is equally mine, along with blue sky overhead and the purling river sparkling in April's sunlight as it journeys merrily along.

There is abundant music in my soul. Should my life end tomorrow, the good will have exponentially outweighed the bad. I have been so greatly blessed, and I am humbly thankful.   

How can I keep from singing?

———————

If you'd like to hear this sweet old hymn, here's a lovely version.

 

A WREN VISIT

We had a visitor last night—a Carolina wren which darted into the hall the moment the back door was opened and made a quick left turn into my study. There it flitted from place to place, perching on the edge of bookshelves, atop the fireplace mantel or a picture frame, and most other various odds and ends of the room’s clutter. 

 Like most wrens who suddenly find themselves in an unexpected predicament, this one seemed more indignant than frightened, as if I’d had the audacity to play a practical joke on it by luring it into the house in the first place. The little bird’s watchful, dark-eyed stare seemed mostly vexed and impatient: “Okay, you’ve had your fun, you big oaf—now get me outta this silly room before I really lose my temper.” 

Lucky for the wren, I have long experience in such removals. After taking a quick photo, I simply turned off the hall light, opened the back door and turned on the outside light. The wren did the rest, immediately launching itself from the top of my computer monitor and out into the night—doubtless glad to be done with the bright lights and clamor, and anxious to find a less busy roost site and get back to a sleep without further interruptions. 

 I wished it well. 

 When I was growing up, wrens were always a part of our daily lives, whether we were working around the house, sitting under the shade of a backyard maple, or eating a meal in the kitchen. Wrens seemed to especially enjoy flitting about within the big red haw’s thick foliage, which spread like an umbrella over the back porch. The door off the back porch opened into the kitchen. On countless occasions we’d be sitting at the table when a Carolina wren—perched in the haw tree—would suddenly burst into song. “Sweet 'tater, sweet 'tater, sweet 'tater, sweet!” the bird would sing at the top of its lungs. (In case you don’t know, this is the hill-country interpretation of their song. You may be more familiar with the “tea-kettle, tea-kettle, tea-kettle” rendering.) The mellifluous melody would come blasting in through the screen door and we'd all pause in our eating or talking to listen and grin at one another in pleasure. 

The aluminium awning my father installed over the small back porch was a favorite wren roosting spot. The birds would tuck themselves between the awning’s rear framework and the siding-clad wall of the house. We usually remembered they were there and acted accordingly, not switching on the porch light or using the door unless it was absolutely necessary. 

Sometimes, however, one of us would forget. We’d flip on the light and fling open the door, and the startled wren would flush off its roost. Whether due to being blinded or just confused by the sudden light, about one time in ten the wren would mistakenly fly into the house. Most times all you had to do was turn off the inside lights and leave the back porch light on, and the bird would dart back outdoors where it belonged. 

But not always. Every so often Dad or I had to retrieve the long-handled fish net from the basement and use it to gently scoop a perplexed wren from a book shelf or the top of Mom's stately pump organ in the spare bedroom. Now and then the cornered wren would even allow us to just ease up and take it gently in our hands. 

When my mother passed away a few years ago at the age of 94, I spent months in the old home place sorting through a long lifetime’s worth of furnishings and memories. Sure enough, one winter night I opened the back door to let Moon the dog out for her pre-bedtime constitutional and a Carolina wren zipped into the kitchen. As Yogi Berra would say, it was like “déjà vu all over again.” The fearless little wren watched me with sharp-eyed curiosity as I reached up and gently plucked it from atop the china cabinet. 

I held the bird momentarily, marvelling at its diminutive size and lovely chestnut-and-cinnamon markings. The bird was warm in my hand. I could feel the fast rhythm of its tiny heart. Then, stepping outside, I opened my palm, and gave the Carolina wren back to the starlit winter night.