"Ah, here comes your hubby," remarked Mrs. John, "he's been to market, I see. Well, ta, ta, dear. Run over soon to see us," and off Mrs. John flew to discuss Mrs. Jenny's housekeeping arrangements with one of her neighbors.
Mr. Wren's songs and antics failed, to draw a smile from his mate the remainder of that day. Upon her nest she sat and brooded, not only her eggs, but over the criticisms and taunts of Mrs. John. Straw, chicken-feathers, and old tin pots occupied her thoughts to the exclusion of everything else, and it was not without a feeling of shame she recalled her morning's happiness and spirit of sweet content. The western sky was still blushing under the fiery gaze of the sun, when Mrs. Jenny fell into a doze and dreamed that she, the very next day, repaid Mrs. John Wren's call. The wind was blowing a hurricane and the pole on which Mrs. John's fine house stood, shook and shivered till Mrs. Jenny looked every minute for pole and nest and eggs to go crashing to the ground.
"My home," thought she, trembling with fear, "though humble, is built upon a sure foundation. Love makes her home there, too. Dear little tin-pot! Chicken feathers or straw, what does it matter?" and home Mrs. Jenny hastened, very thankful in her dream for the protecting walls, and overhanging porch, as well as the feeling of security afforded by her sympathetic human neighbors.
The fourteen days in truth did seem very long to Mrs. Wren, but cheered by her mate's love songs and an occasional outing—all her persuasions could not induce Mr. Wren to brood the eggs in her absence—it wasn't a man's work, he said—the time at length passed, and the day came when a tiny yellow beak thrust itself through the shell, and in a few hours, to the parents delight, a little baby Wren was born.
Mr. Wren was so overcome with joy that off he flew to the nearest tree, and with drooping tail and wings shaking at his side, announced, in a gush of song, to the entire neighborhood the fact that he was a papa.
"A pa-pa, is it?" exclaimed Bridget, attracted by the bird's manner to approach the nest. "From watchin' these little crathers it do same I'm afther understandin' bird talk and bird-ways most like the misthress herself," and with one big red finger she gently pushed the angry Mrs. Wren aside and took a peep at the new born bird.
"Howly mither!" said she, retreating in deep disgust, "ov all the skinny, ugly little bastes! Shure and its all head and no tail, with niver a feather to kiver its nakedness. It's shamed I'd be, Mr. Wren, to father an ugly crather loike that, so I would," and Bridget, who had an idea that young birds came into the world prepared at once to fly, shook her head sadly, and went into the house to inform the family of the event.
One by one the children peeped into the nest and all agreed with Bridget that it was indeed a very ugly little birdling which lay there.
"Wish I could take it out, mama," said Dorothy, "and put some of my doll's clothes on it. It is such a shivery looking little thing."
"Ugh!" exclaimed Walter, "what are those big balls covered with skin on each side of its head; and when will it look like a bird, mama?"