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THE TALE OF RUSTY WREN

“That Won’t Do,” Said Rusty Wren
Frontispiece—([Page 2])

TUCK-ME-IN TALES

(Registered Trademark)

THE TALE OF
RUSTY WREN

BY

ARTHUR SCOTT BAILEY

Author of

"SLEEPY-TIME TALES"

(Registered Trademark)

ILLUSTRATED BY

HARRY L. SMITH

NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS

Made in the United States of America

Copyright, 1917, by
GROSSET & DUNLAP

CONTENTS

THE TALE OF RUSTY WREN

I

A PLEASANT HOME

Now, Rusty Wren had found—and shown to his wife—a hollow apple tree and a hole in a fence-rail, either of which he thought would make a pleasant place in which to live.

But since the little couple were house wrens, Rusty’s wife said she thought that they oughtn’t to be so far from the farmhouse.

“Why not build our nest behind one of the shutters?” she suggested.

But Rusty shook his head quickly—and with decision.

“That won’t do,” said he. “Somebody might come to the window and close the shutter; and then our nest would fall to the ground. And if we happened to have six or eight eggs in it, you know you wouldn’t like that very well.”

Rusty’s wife agreed with him on that point. But she still insisted that she wanted to live near the farmhouse; and she said that she expected her husband to find a good spot for their nest, for she certainly wasn’t going to spend the summer in a hole in a fence-rail, or in an old apple tree, either.

Rusty Wren saw at once that there was no sense in arguing with her. If he wanted any peace, he knew that he might as well forget the old hollow apple tree and the hole in the fence-rail too. He had better forget them and resume his search for a home. So he gave his plump little cinnamon-colored body a shake and held his tail at even a higher angle than usual, just to show people that he was going to be the head of the house—when they should have one. Then with a flirt of his short, round wings he hurried over to Farmer Green’s dooryard—after calling to his wife that he would come back and tell her if he had any luck.

Rusty Wren spent some busy moments about Farmer Green’s buildings. And since he loved to be busy and was never so happy as when he had something important to do, he hopped and climbed and fluttered to his heart’s content, looking into a hundred different holes and cracks and crannies.

But he didn’t find a single one that suited him. Every place into which he peered was either too big or too little, or too high or too low; or it was where the rain would beat upon it; or maybe it was so situated that the cat could thrust her paw inside. Anyhow, every possible nook for a nest had some drawback. And Rusty was wondering what he could say to his wife, who was sure to be upset if her plans went wrong, when all at once he came upon the finest place for a house that he had ever seen. One quick look through the small round opening that led to it was enough.

He knew right away that his search was ended. So he hurried back to the orchard to find Mrs. Rusty and tell her the good news.

“I’ve found the best spot for a house in all Pleasant Valley!” he cried, as he dropped down beside her and hopped about in his excitement.

“Is it in a good neighborhood?” she inquired calmly.

“Yes, indeed!” he replied. “It’s in a tree close to Farmer Green’s bedroom window.”

“A hole in a tree!” she exclaimed somewhat doubtfully. “Not an old squirrel’s nest, I hope?”

“No, no!” he assured her. “It’s not really in a tree. It’s nailed to a tree. Come with me and I’ll show you.”

At that the bustling little pair hastened toward the farmhouse. And, to Rusty’s delight, the moment his wife saw what he had found she said at once that it was exactly the sort of house she had always hoped to have, some time.

II

JOHNNIE GREEN’S IDEA

It happened that just before Rusty Wren and his wife came to Pleasant Valley to look for a home, Johnnie Green had an idea.

He found the idea in the weekly paper which the letter-carrier left each Friday in the mail box at the crossroads. On the Children’s Page Johnnie read a story about a pair of house wrens. And he learned then that an old tin can nailed to a tree makes exactly the sort of house that wrens like.

Well, Johnnie Green began at once to look for a tin can. He had made up his mind that he would try to coax a couple of those busy little songsters to nest near-by, where he could have fun watching them.

Not finding an old tin can that suited him, Johnnie took a shiny maple syrup can, which his father said he might have. It seemed to him that it was just the kind he needed, for the only opening in it was a small round hole in the top, hardly bigger than a twenty-five-cent piece. (The story in the weekly paper said that the wrens’ doorway should be as small as that, so that no ruffianly English sparrows could enter the house and disturb the little people that were to dwell there.)

Johnnie Green punched a few nail holes in the sides of the syrup can, because he thought that if he lived in such a place, he would want plenty of fresh air. Then he nailed a board to the can. And next he nailed the board to a cherry tree close to the house.

After that Johnnie had nothing more to do but wait. And he had not waited two days before Rusty Wren discovered the bright tin can that was to be his summer home.

As soon as she saw it, Rusty’s wife said that there must be kind people living in the farmhouse, or they never would have driven nails through a spick-and-span can just to make strangers happy.

Since their search was ended, the tiny pair began building their nest right then and there. In a surprisingly short time they had completely filled their new house with twigs. And as soon as they had done that much, in the center of the mass of twigs they built a nest of dried grasses, singing the merriest of songs while they worked.

Of course, Johnnie Green was delighted. All the time the lively little couple were at work upon their new home it was easy to find Johnnie. But it was hard to get him to do any errands, because he didn’t want to stir from the dooryard, he was so interested in what was going on.

Farmer Green, too, seemed pleased. And though he didn’t spend much time watching Mr. and Mrs. Rusty (he said that he had to work, the same as they), he remarked to Johnnie that he was glad to see that the newcomers were already paying rent for their house.

Johnnie Green looked puzzled.

“Rent?” he exclaimed. “I don’t understand.”

“Just hear them!” his father replied. “Isn’t their singing pay enough for the use of a tin syrup can?”

“That’s so!” cried Johnnie. “I never thought of that. Why, they’ve turned that can into a regular music-box!”

III

THE ALARM CLOCK

All summer long Farmer Green rose while the world was still gray, before the sun climbed over the mountain to flood Pleasant Valley with his golden light.

One might think that Farmer Green would have had some trouble awaking so early in the morning. And perhaps he might have overslept now and then had he not had a never-failing alarm clock to arouse him.

It was not one of those man-made clocks, which go off with a deafening clatter and bring a startled body to his feet before he is really awake. No! Farmer Green had something much pleasanter than that; and it was not in his bedroom, either.

His alarm clock was in his dooryard, for it was Rusty Wren himself who always warned him that day was breaking and that it was time to get up and go to work.

Every morning, without fail, Rusty sang his dawn song right under Farmer Green’s window. His musical trill, sounding very much like the brook that rippled its way down the side of Blue Mountain, always made Farmer Green feel glad that another day had come.

“If that busy little chap is up——” he often said, meaning Rusty Wren, of course—“if he’s up there’s no reason why I should lie here and sleep.”

And since everybody else in the house followed Farmer Green’s custom of rising early, it happened that so small a bird as Rusty Wren aroused the whole household out of their beds.

To be sure, Johnnie Green—sitting up and rubbing his eyes sleepily—sometimes wished that Rusty would skip his dawn song once in a while. And he told his father at breakfast one day that since he was not a bird, he saw no reason why he should get up with the sun.

“You needn’t,” said Farmer Green. “But you know the old saying about ‘early to bed and early to rise,’ don’t you?”

Johnnie remembered that such habits were supposed to make one “healthy, wealthy and wise.” And since he hated to take medicine, and was trying to save enough money to buy him a gun, and disliked to be kept in after school for not knowing his lessons, he decided that perhaps it was just as well, after all, to follow Rusty Wren’s example.

Now, Farmer Green spoke so often and so pleasantly of Rusty Wren, saying that nobody could want a better little alarm clock than he, that Rusty began to take a great deal of pride in his morning task of awakening the household. It could hardly be called a task, however, because Rusty thoroughly enjoyed singing, though when he sang—as when he did anything else—he put every ounce of his strength into the effort. With his head lifted as high as his short neck would permit, and his tail (which usually stuck pertly upwards) drooping downward, as if he had for the moment forgotten it, he poured forth his music with such fervor that his small body actually trembled.

You see, Rusty Wren never did things by halves. When he did anything he was never satisfied with less than his best.

And that was another reason why Farmer Green liked him.

IV

RUSTY IS JEALOUS

Before Rusty Wren came to live in Farmer Green’s dooryard the family had been known to oversleep now and then. Working hard all day long as everybody did (except Johnnie Green, who played hard enough—goodness knows!), they slept very soundly at night. And two or three times every summer they were sure to rise late, just by accident.

Though such a mishap always annoyed Farmer Green, it never troubled either the hired man or Johnnie in the least. On the contrary, they seemed to enjoy those occasions. But with Rusty Wren to rouse them at dawn all that was changed. And Farmer Green remarked one day that one thing was certain; they would lose no time that summer by staying in bed too long.

That very afternoon he had to go to the village. And when he came home he brought several surprises with him.

Those surprises pleased Johnnie and his mother so much that when he went to bed that night Farmer Green felt even happier than was usual with him. He went to bed somewhat early because he said he had more work than ever to do the next day, on account of his having gone to the village.

But happy as he was that night, the following morning Farmer Green was quite out of sorts. For the whole family overslept. Not a soul awaked until the sun had been up at least an hour.

“I don’t understand——” Farmer Green said at the breakfast table—“I don’t understand why I failed to hear that wren this morning. I must have been unusually sleepy.”

The hired man helped himself to some more griddle-cakes and remarked that it was a pity. But somehow he did not look sorry, in spite of what he said.

“We’ll go to bed early to-night,” Farmer Green continued, “so we’ll be sure to wake up before sunrise.”

And, strange to say, the next morning the very same accident happened again.

“I don’t see what’s come over me,” said Farmer Green. “I don’t hear that wren singing right under my window any more. I thought that maybe the cat had caught him. But there he is this very moment, on that limb!”

Everybody said it certainly was odd, for the wren always sang as soon as it began to grow light.

Well, that night Farmer Green went to bed before dark, declaring that he must be up bright and early in the morning.

“I wish that new clock I brought home day before yesterday was an alarm clock,” he said. “Then I wouldn’t have to worry about waking up on time.... Anyhow, I ought to hear the wren again to-morrow morning.”

But Farmer Green hoped in vain. Though the cat had not caught Rusty, and he had not moved away, either, he no longer sang beneath Farmer Green’s window at dawn.

For three mornings he had gone to the orchard to trill his dawn song; and though they did not know the reason, that was why the Green family rose late for three mornings running.

Once Rusty Wren had been proud to be called Farmer Green’s alarm clock. But now something had happened that made him resolve to stop waking the household.

It was all on account of one of those surprises that Farmer Green had brought home from the village. For without intending to do any such thing, Farmer Green had surprised Rusty Wren as well as Johnnie and his mother.

Now, a surprise may be one of two kinds—pleasant or unpleasant. And, strangely enough, the very thing that delighted the Green family sent Rusty Wren into a spasm of jealous rage.

Of course, it was very silly of him to lose his temper. But he was too upset to stop to think of that.

V

THE NEW BIRD

Farmer Green had not been home long, after his trip to the village, when Rusty Wren heard a sound that for once made him keep quite still for at least five seconds.

“Cuckoo! cuckoo!” The cry came from inside the farmhouse. And since the windows were wide open, Rusty could easily hear it from the tree near-by, where he lived.

“There’s a new bird in there!” Rusty Wren exclaimed to himself as soon as the sound reached his ears. He listened intently. But the call was not repeated.

“Farmer Green is not satisfied with my singing!” Rusty cried. And thereupon he flew into such a rage that when his wife came home, a few minutes later, she was actually frightened.

“What in the world is the matter?” she asked her husband anxiously.

“Matter?” cried Rusty Wren. “Here I’ve sung my best for Farmer Green all summer, and waked him at dawn every morning without fail! And what do you suppose he’s done? He has brought home a strange bird from the village, because he doesn’t care for my singing.”

Mrs. Rusty Wren told her husband that he must be mistaken.

“Maybe a bird flew inside the farmhouse by accident,” she said. “What kind of bird is it?” she inquired.

“It said ‘Cuckoo!’” Rusty explained. “But if it’s a cuckoo, it’s different from any other I’ve ever heard. You know yourself that Black Bill Cuckoo who lives in the bushes beyond the orchard says ‘Cow, cow!’”

“I wouldn’t worry, if I were you,” Mrs. Rusty advised her husband. “No doubt this strange bird has already made his escape.”

It was then after sunset. And soon Rusty Wren’s family were all fast asleep, without having heard any more bird notes from the farmhouse.

The next morning Rusty awoke just as the first streaks of gray showed in the east. He was about to begin his dawn song when through the kitchen window came that “Cuckoo! cuckoo!” again.

Rusty knew then that the strange bird was still there.

“Did you hear that?” he asked his wife.

She nodded her head silently.

“He’s telling Farmer Green that it’s time to get up!” Rusty exclaimed indignantly. “And since Farmer Green has seen fit to get somebody else to wake him, I certainly shall not trouble myself on his account any more.”

So Rusty Wren flew away to the orchard to sing his dawn song. Jolly Robin, who lived there, in an old apple tree, was surprised to hear Rusty Wren singing in that neighborhood so early. And he was still more astonished at Rusty’s melody.

His voice was so much shriller than usual that Jolly Robin knew instantly that something had displeased him.

“What’s happened to upset you?” Jolly Robin inquired, after Rusty had finished singing.

“I expect to come here and give my dawn song every morning,” Rusty remarked. “And if there’s anybody living in the orchard that objects, he had better move away at once.”

Of course Jolly Robin didn’t want to do that. And he said as much, too.

“But I hope you’ll sing a little more happily,” he told Rusty, “because I don’t like to hear people complaining—and neither does my wife.”

It is easy to understand why Farmer Green and his family overslept, when one knows that Rusty Wren no longer sang his dawn song beneath Farmer Green’s window. And when Rusty saw that the whole household never stirred until long after sunrise, he was so pleased that he couldn’t help making a few remarks about the new bird in the farmhouse, which had annoyed him so by singing “Cuckoo! cuckoo!”

“This stranger is a very poor songster!” Rusty said to his wife. “All he can sing is ‘Cuckoo! cuckoo!’ in that silly way of his. He has no trills and runs and ripples at all! And he can’t even repeat his song ten times a minute, as I give mine. He has to wait at least half an hour before he cries ‘Cuckoo! cuckoo!’ again. And no one but a simpleton would ever attempt to awaken a hard-working farmer by such half-hearted singing.”

Mrs. Rusty quite agreed with her husband.

“Farmer Green will be sorry he brought home such a worthless bird,” she said.

VI

MR. CROW TO THE RESCUE

As time went on, and the Green family overslept each morning, Rusty began to grow very weary of the monotonous “Cuckoo! cuckoo!” which came every half hour, all day long, through the kitchen window of the farmhouse.

“I’d like to know what sort of bird that is!” he exclaimed at last. “If he’d only come out here in the yard I’d ask him his name—and tell him what I think of him, too.”

But the stranger never stirred out of the kitchen. And at length Rusty decided to make inquiries about him. Seeing Jimmy Rabbit passing through the orchard on his way home from the cabbage-patch, Rusty called to him.

“If you happen to see old Mr. Crow, I wish you would ask him if he won’t please come right over to the orchard,” Rusty Wren said. “There’s something I want to find out. And Mr. Crow knows so much that perhaps he can help me.”

Jimmy Rabbit declared that he would be delighted to deliver the message. And he must have gone out of his way to find Mr. Crow, for the old gentleman arrived at the orchard in less than sixteen minutes.

Rusty was waiting for him. And, having explained about the strange bird as well as he could, he asked Mr. Crow what he thought.

“I’d like to hear his song,” said old Mr. Crow.

“Come right over to my tree near the house!” Rusty urged him.

Mr. Crow hesitated.

“Where’s Farmer Green?” he inquired.

“Oh! He’s working in the hayfield.”

“Where’s Johnnie Green?” Mr. Crow asked.

“Oh! He’s in the hayfield, too, riding on the hayrake,” Rusty Wren explained.

“I’ll come with you, then,” Mr. Crow croaked.

So they flew to the dooryard. And they hadn’t waited there long when the strange bird sang his “Cuckoo! cuckoo!”

“There!” said Rusty. “That’s his silly song!”

And to his surprise Mr. Crow haw-hawed right out.

“What’s the joke?” Rusty Wren wanted to know.

“That’s not a bird——” said old Mr. Crow—“or, at least, it’s not a real bird. He’s made of wood. And he lives inside a cuckoo clock.”

“Ah!” Rusty cried. “An alarm clock!”

But old Mr. Crow shook his head.

“No!” he replied. “It’s just an everyday clock. And, instead of striking, it lets this little wooden bird come out and sing.”

Rusty Wren said that he wouldn’t care for a clock like that and that he didn’t see why Farmer Green had brought it home, anyhow.

“Cuckoo clocks amuse the women and children,” Mr. Crow remarked wisely.

“Then you think Farmer Green was not dissatisfied with my singing? You think he would like me to wake him every morning, just as I used to?” Rusty waited eagerly for Mr. Crow’s opinion.

Old Mr. Crow pondered for a while before answering. He reflected that since it was long past corn-planting time, it really made no difference to him whether Farmer Green overslept or not. If the corn had just been put in the ground, he would have liked to have Farmer Green stay in bed all day long.

“I understand that the whole family enjoys your songs,” Mr. Crow told Rusty at last. “And for the present you may as well sing your dawn song right here in your own tree, beneath Farmer Green’s window. But if you’re living here next spring, I wish you would consult me again.”

Rusty Wren agreed to that, thanking Mr. Crow for his kindness, too. And, afterward, instead of being angry, he laughed whenever he heard that silly “Cuckoo! cuckoo!” Since he knew it was only a wooden bird, Rusty Wren was jealous no longer.

The next morning he awakened Farmer Green at the break o’ day. And the hired man was so sleepy that he fell downstairs and couldn’t work for a whole week.

VII

A NEAT HOUSEKEEPER

Rusty Wren’s wife was a very neat housekeeper. Every day she carefully cleaned her house, chirping while she worked. Sometimes her voice was sweet and pleasant. But at other times—though it was still sweet—it was not pleasant at all. And whenever Rusty heard that second kind of chirp he was always careful to find some errand that took him away from home.

You see, Rusty Wren was not so orderly as his wife. Often he scattered things about the house in a very careless fashion. For instance, if he happened to notice a bit of moss—or a burr—clinging to his coat, just as likely as not he would brush it off and let it fall upon the floor. And when Mrs. Rusty found anything like that in her cottage, she always knew how it came there.

Rusty sometimes remarked that it was a good thing he didn’t smoke.

“How would you like it if I dropped bits of tobacco, or ashes, and maybe burnt matches for you to pick up?” he asked his wife.

“You couldn’t come inside my house if you used tobacco,” she always replied. And she would get quite excited at the mere thought of such an untidy habit.

And then Rusty would smile—but he always took good care not to let his wife see him.

“Don’t worry!” he would say, if she became too stirred up. “I’ve never smoked yet—and I never expect to.”

One can see that Rusty Wren was somewhat of a tease. And as it usually happens with people who amuse themselves at the expense of others, there came a time when Rusty’s teasing landed him in trouble.

One day after he had come home from an excursion to the pasture (he seldom strayed so far from home as that!), Mrs. Rusty began sniffing the air. Her nose would have wrinkled—only it couldn’t, because it was so hard. She looked at her husband suspiciously. And it seemed to her that he had a guilty manner.

“I declare,” she said, “I believe you’ve been smoking.” And she started to scold so angrily that Rusty Wren knew she must be in a temper.

Seeing signs of trouble, Rusty began to fidget. And he moved about so uneasily that his wife was all the surer of his guilt. She stopped right in the middle of her scolding to say, “I smell smoke!”

“Perhaps you do,” Rusty admitted. “But it’s certainly not tobacco smoke.”

“Ah!” she exclaimed. “Then you’ve been smoking corn-silk, or hayseed—and that’s almost as bad.”

But Rusty said that it must be the smoke of a pine stump that she noticed.

“Farmer Green is burning some old stumps in the pasture,” he explained. “And I flew through a cloud of it.”

Just then he happened to notice a bit of something or other clinging to one of his tail feathers. And though his wife was looking straight at him, he flicked the tiny scrap upon the floor, without thinking what he was doing.

“There you go again!” Mrs. Rusty Wren cried. “Here I’ve just finished cleaning the house and you’re littering it all up! You don’t care how much work you make for me.” And she pounced upon the brownish bit, intending to pick it up and throw it out of the house.

Rusty had already decided that he had better go away from home for a little while, until things were pleasanter, when his wife suddenly faced about and fixed him with her glittering eyes.

“Ha!” she cried, holding up the scrap in her bill for him to see. “Tobacco!” she screamed. “And what, pray, have you to say to me now?”

VIII

RUSTY IN TROUBLE

Rusty Wren edged toward the door—that little opening in the syrup can, only slightly bigger than a twenty-five-cent piece. He wished he was already safely through it, for he did not like the look in his wife’s eyes.

“I must be going now,” he said faintly—though he was generally as bold as brass.

“Wait a moment!” Mrs. Rusty ordered. “Where did this tobacco come from?” She spoke somewhat thickly, for she still held the bit of brown leaf in her bill.

“I can’t imagine,” he stammered. “I never knew it was sticking to my tail until I saw it and brushed it off——”

“On my clean floor!” his wife interrupted. “Goodness knows it’s bad enough to have you forever doing things like that without your bringing tobacco into my clean house—and without smelling of smoke, too.”

For almost the first time in his life Rusty Wren was really worried. Somehow, he had managed to get into something a good deal like a scrape. It seemed to him that the house was terribly hot and stuffy; and always before he had thought it quite comfortable.

“I’m going out for a breath of fresh air,” he protested feebly. And before Mrs. Rusty could stop him he dodged past her and slipped through the tiny doorway, leaving her to scold to her heart’s content.

All this happened in the middle of the morning. And the cuckoo clock in Farmer Green’s kitchen had sung the hour six times before Rusty Wren returned.

Never before had he stayed away from his snug house so long. And, naturally, that made him have a guilty feeling, as if he had really done something to be ashamed of. As for smoking, he had (as he said) never smoked in his life. It was true that Farmer Green was burning stumps in the pasture that morning, and that the odor of the smoke had clung to Rusty’s feathers.

But the bit of tobacco that had clung to his tail was a mystery that he couldn’t explain. It was a most unfortunate accident. But Rusty hoped that by that time—it was then the middle of the afternoon—he hoped that his wife had recovered from her displeasure. Usually, when they had any little difference of opinion, she felt better if he gave her plenty of time in which to scold. But now Rusty was not quite sure of his welcome. He had never seen Mrs. Rusty so upset.

“Are you there, my love?” he asked softly, as he alighted on the roof of his house. He did not care to go inside until he was quite sure that his wife was in better spirits.

“The smoker has come home again,” a peevish voice called out. And instead of bursting into the merry song which Rusty had been all ready to carol, he flew off across the yard and began hunting for something to eat.

Since he couldn’t very well go home, he thought that he might as well enjoy a good meal, at least.

IX

ALL’S WELL AGAIN

After Rusty Wren had revived his drooping spirits by eating heartily of three dozen insects of different kinds and sizes, he felt so cheerful that he couldn’t help trilling a few songs. It was almost evening; and he was glad not to let the sun go down without thanking him in that way for shining so brightly all day.

Though it was so late, Farmer Green still toiled in the fields; but Rusty could hear Johnnie and old dog Spot driving the cows down the lane towards the barn.

Now, above the wide door of the carriage house a window was open—a window through which Rusty had flown early in the morning. Unlike old Mr. Crow, Rusty Wren was not in the least afraid to enter any of the farm buildings. Perhaps if Rusty had been in the habit of taking Farmer Green’s corn he would have thought twice before he ventured inside the cow barn or the carriage house. But since he never damaged the crops, and always helped them by destroying a great number of insects that ate all sorts of growing things, Rusty had nothing whatever to fear from anybody in the farmhouse—except the cat, of course.

There was really no reason for Rusty’s flying through the open window, beyond the fact that he liked to prowl around the great, dusty room under the eaves, to see what he could find. Once he was inside, he noticed something that had not caught his eye on his former visit. Hanging from a rafter, where the slanting rays of the setting sun fell squarely upon it, was a big bunch of brown tobacco leaves.

Rusty Wren gave a chirp of pleasure at the sight. That was where he must have picked up the bit of tobacco that had clung to his tail feathers and upset his wife’s good nature.

“I’ll go right home and get her and bring her here so she can see this tobacco herself!” he said aloud. “Then she’ll know where that shred came from which fell on the floor.” He did not say “which I brushed onto the floor,” for he never could remember long that he ever did such careless things.

Well, Rusty Wren went out of the window a good deal faster than he had flown in. And, in less time than it takes to tell it, he was perched on top of his house again and calling to his wife.

“I know now where the tobacco came from!” he sang out. “Just come outside and I’ll show you. It’s upstairs in the carriage house!”

To his delight, Mrs. Rusty answered in the sweetest tone imaginable. But she said she didn’t want to come out just then. And she didn’t seem a bit interested in tobacco any more.

“You come right into the house!” she cried. “There’s something here that I want to show you.”

Rusty Wren whisked through the hole in the maple syrup can. Home had never looked quite so good to him before, for he had not been there since the middle of the morning.

“What is it?” he asked eagerly.

His wife was sitting on their nest. And there was nothing new in the house, so far as he could see.

She moved aside then. “Look!” she said.

And, peering into the nest, Rusty saw a speckled egg there. It was really a small egg. But to Rusty Wren’s eyes it seemed decidedly big.

He was so surprised that he couldn’t speak for as much as two seconds. And then he began to sing—he was so happy.

Though Mrs. Rusty kept very still, she seemed much pleased. And, strange to say, she never mentioned smoking to her husband again.

She had something more important to think about.

X

BAD NEWS

When Johnnie Green fastened the tin can to the tree in the dooryard he couldn’t have picked out a better spot for it. Of course, he hoped that a pair of wrens would build their nest inside the syrup can. But what he never dreamed was that the cherry tree was exactly the sort of tree that wrens liked.

It was not that Rusty and his wife cared for cherries. But as soon as Mrs. Wren had said how much she liked her new house, she remarked that the old cherry tree was a fine place to hunt for bugs and insects.

“Yes!” Rusty agreed. “And there’s an ant hill near the foot of the tree. It will be very convenient on stormy days, for we shall not have to go far for our breakfast.”

Not being fond of cherries, they did not look forward to the time when the bright red fruit should hang gaily upon the branches above their home. But there were others—besides Johnnie Green—who eagerly awaited that time and noticed that the old tree was loaded with blossoms, which meant that later there would be plenty of cherries.

Jolly Robin was one of those who had a taste for cherries, no matter whether they grew wild in the woods or within easy reach in Farmer Green’s yard. And as soon as cherry time arrived Jolly was on hand every day to enjoy the treat.

He was so cheerful and good-natured that Rusty Wren and his wife did not object to Jolly’s visits—so long as he did not venture too near their house. They always scolded loudly when an outsider came too close to their home, for they had a big family of children, and they couldn’t help feeling that the youngsters were safer with no prying busybodies to meddle with them.

Of course, Jolly Robin never once thought of harming any of Rusty’s family. And as soon as he saw that Rusty—and especially his wife—wanted him to keep away from their side of the tree, he took care to respect their wishes.

Then all was peaceful. And the three had many pleasant chats together.

At last, however, Jolly Robin made a remark one day that threw both Rusty and his wife into a flutter of alarm. Jolly Robin had not meant to frighten them. But the news was out before he realized that it was far from welcome to his two little listeners.

“Jasper Jay has heard about these cherries,” he announced. “And he says he’s coming over here as soon as he can find time, for he is specially fond of all kinds of cherries, no matter whether they’re red cherries or black cherries or choke cherries.”

Rusty Wren glanced quickly at his wife.

He could easily see that Jolly Robin’s speech had upset her. And, to tell the truth, he did not himself relish the prospect of a visit from anybody as boisterous and quarrelsome as that famous bully, Jasper Jay.

“Can’t you prevent his coming?” Rusty asked Jolly Robin.

But Jolly Robin shook his head.

“When Jasper Jay makes up his mind, I know of no way to make him change it,” he said.

XI

THE NOISE ON THE ROOF

As soon as she heard that Jasper Jay intended to visit her cherry tree, to enjoy the ripe fruit, Rusty Wren’s wife began to worry. And she made herself so unhappy that Rusty couldn’t help wishing that Jolly Robin had kept his news to himself.

“Don’t be alarmed!” he said to her, after Jolly had gone. “Jasper Jay can’t harm the children, for they’ll be safe in the nest. And luckily our doorway is too small for him.”

But Mrs. Rusty wouldn’t be calmed.

“He’s a great, cruel bully,” she replied. “And if he spends much time here I’m afraid the children will starve, for neither you nor I will be able to go out and find food for them, because Jasper would be sure to pounce on us; and what chance would we have against him?”

“We’ll go together,” said Rusty Wren, looking very brave.

But Mrs. Wren said she wouldn’t think of leaving her six small children all alone in the house.

“Everything will be all right,” Rusty assured her. “You know Jasper isn’t coming unless he can find the time. Jolly Robin said so. And maybe he won’t be able to get here at all.”

They had gone inside their house to talk over the matter in private. And Rusty had hardly finished speaking when a loud bang, followed by a clatter, sounded on the tin roof above their heads.

It was no wonder that they both jumped.

“Goodness!” exclaimed Rusty’s wife. “What’s that?”

But Rusty couldn’t tell her. During all the weeks they had lived there he had heard nothing like that.

While they listened the noise was repeated. And Mrs. Rusty declared that the sky must be falling, for she had never heard such a dreadful sound in all her life.

“I’ll go right out and see what it is,” Rusty Wren said.

But his wife caught hold of his coat-tails and begged him to stay with her.

“No! no!” she cried. “You must not stir out of the house. I’d be terribly worried if you left me alone here with these six small children. And you might get hurt, besides.”

Meanwhile the racket on the roof continued, with only a short pause between each outburst. The six Wren children began to cry—for they were hungry as well as frightened. And all the time Mrs. Rusty clung to her husband’s coat-tails and besought him not to leave her.

To tell the truth, he had no such intention. Though he was very brave for his size, he was thoroughly alarmed. And for the time being he was quite content to stay inside his snug house and hope that the trouble would soon come to an end.

On the whole, the Wren family spent a very unpleasant quarter of an hour. The bang, clatter, bang on their roof still continued until the din became almost unbearable. And Rusty Wren grew so desperate that he had almost made up his mind to break away from his wife, even if he had to leave his coat-tails behind him, and dash out of doors to see what was the matter.

Then all at once a different sound fell upon their ears. And as soon as they heard it they knew at once that the sky was not falling, anyhow.

“Jay! jay!” Jasper Jay’s harsh voice was unmistakable. He had been playing one of his sly tricks on the Wren family; and they had never guessed that it was he!

XII

THE UNWELCOME VISITOR

“It’s Jasper Jay!” Rusty Wren cried, as soon as he and his wife heard the hoarse cry outside their house. “He’s playing one of his tricks on us. And I’m going out and tell him exactly what I think of him.”

“Don’t forget to tell him what I think of him, too!” Mrs. Rusty said, as she let go of her husband’s coat-tails.

Then Rusty hurried through the little doorway. And there was Jasper, sitting on a limb above the house, with a cherry in his bill, which he let fall with a sly smile.

The cherry struck the roof of Rusty’s house with a loud bang! And then came the same clatter, to which the Wren family had been listening.

“Here! Stop that!” Rusty cried.

Jasper Jay shrieked with laughter.

“Go away!” said Rusty.

“Go away yourself!” retorted Jasper.

“This is my home,” Rusty Wren told him hotly. “And you’ve no right to come here and frighten my wife and children like this.”

“How shall I frighten them, then?” Jasper Jay asked him. “Perhaps you like this way better!” he shouted. And with that he flew straight at Rusty Wren. He was so big and he looked so cruel that Rusty turned tail and dashed back into his house again. And he was glad that his doorway was not much bigger than a twenty-five-cent piece, because he knew that Jasper Jay could never squeeze through so small an opening.

Jasper alighted on top of the house and jumped up and down on the roof, striking it with his bill and screaming angrily.

“Don’t be afraid!” Rusty said to his wife. “He can’t do any harm. And after a while he’ll grow tired of staying here and he’ll go away.”

Well, Rusty was half right, at least. For Jasper Jay went away at last; but he didn’t wait until he had grown weary of his rowdyish sport.

Now, Johnnie Green happened to hear Jasper’s harsh cries. And, looking out of the window, he saw Jasper’s strange performance.

“That blue jay is teasing my little wrens!” Johnnie Green cried indignantly. And, catching up a potato from the kitchen table, he hurried to the door and hurled it as hard as he could at the blue-coated trouble-maker.

The potato missed Jasper Jay by less than an inch, bringing up kerplunk! against the trunk of the old cherry tree, and breaking into several pieces.

And then it was Jasper Jay’s turn to be alarmed. He jumped off the roof of Rusty Wren’s house as if he had been shot and dashed off as fast as his handsome wings could carry him. He knew of no way to tease Johnnie Green; so there was really no sense in his staying in Farmer Green’s yard any longer.