Mr. Wren, with a number of other gentlemen Wrens, had arrived some weeks before and had been kept pretty busy looking about for a desirable apartment in which to set up housekeeping. Several had struck him as being just the thing, among them a gourd which one thoughtful family had set for a Chickadee. “I’ll fetch some sticks and straws and put a few in each house,” said he, with the greediness of his kind, “so the other birds will think it is rented. Mrs. Wren is so particular maybe none of them will suit her. She always wants something better than Mrs. John Wren, her cousin, and I notice Mr. John looking about in this neighborhood, too.”
In the low bushes and shrubbery Mr. Wren flitted from day to day, keeping his eye on one apartment, especially, which he considered particularly fine.
“I do wish she would hurry up,” he thought, anxious for Mrs. Wren to arrive. “It takes a female so long to get ready to go anywhere. I saw an impudent Blue Jay around here this morning and he may take a fancy to that apartment up there. I wouldn’t like to tackle him, and so, to let him see that it is rented, I’ll fetch a few more straws,” and off Mr. Wren flew, returning in a very little while with his bill full.
Well, about the first of April Mrs. Wren arrived, quite tired with her journey, but as sprightly and talkative as ever. Mr. Wren greeted her with one of his loudest songs, and they flew about chattering and singing for quite a while.
“I suppose,” said she, resting at length on the limb of a maple tree, “that you have been flying about, eating and drinking and talking with the other Mr. Wrens, and not looking for a house at all. That is the way with your sex generally, when there is any work to be done.”
“Oh, it is?” said Mr. Wren, his feathers ruffled in a minute. “That’s my reward for staying about this house and the grounds all the time, is it? My whole time has been taken up in house hunting, let me tell you, Mrs. Wren, and in keeping my eye on one particular apartment which is to let up there.”
“Where?” chirped Mrs. Wren, her bright eyes traveling up and down the side of the house before them. “I don’t see a box or crevice anywhere.”
“Oh, you don’t?” said Mr. Wren, mimicking her tone and air, “not a single box or crevice anywhere. Who said anything about either, I’d like to know?”
“Why, you did, Mr. Wren,” said Mrs. Jenny, every feather on top of her head standing on end. “You did, as plain as could be.”
“I said nothing of the sort,” retorted Mr. Wren, “I never mentioned a box or crevice once.”