The Story of Freginald by Walter R. Brooks

back in a couple of hours. The circus hasn’t got far away.”
    â€œYes, and what will my wife say if I go gallivanting off and the floor not even done yet?”
    â€œMr. Boomschmidt will give you anything you want. Pounds and pounds of corn meal, enough to last all summer. Or ribbons for your nest—”
    The wren shook his head. “The old house is full of stuff to build with. And we get all we want to eat from the captain. He sees to it that the birds get their share of everything.”
    â€œAh, you’re afraid of your old captain. That’s it,” said Freginald. “Hool Afraid of an old bull. Well, what a scairt cat you turned out to be!”
    â€œOh, you can’t get me that way,” said the wren. “Sure, I’m afraid. Nope, you’d better apply elsewhere.”
    â€œOh dear,” said Freginald. “Well, I guess that’s that. But you don’t mind just talking to me a little, do you? Leo’s in such a bad temper, and I do enjoy a little conversation.”
    â€œNot at all,” said the wren. “I suppose you’re going to try some other way now, to fool me into taking a message. Well, go ahead. If you can kid me into doing anything, why, you’re welcome.” He laughed his sly little rippling laugh. “As if anybody could fool a wren! But,” he said, “I would like to know about your circus.”
    So Freginald told the wren about life on the road, and what all the different animals did. The wren was interested and asked very intelligent questions. But finally Freginald brought the talk around to nestbuilding. So the wren told him what materials were used and how they were woven together. And finally Freginald said: “This is all extremely interesting to me. By the way, did you ever hear of the African dip-dip?”
    â€œI can’t say that I have,” said the wren.
    â€œHe’s a bird,” said Freginald, “that’s about your size. Only his coloring is very bright—red and blue and yellow—Forgive me,” he said as the wren glanced down at his own dull and dowdy plumage rather sourly, “I wasn’t making comparisons. We can’t all be beautiful, like the dip-dip. I myself have often wished I could wear a tiger skin instead of this ragged, rusty old coat. However, I was thinking of the dip-dip because he builds a nest much like yours. Only he builds it—will you believe me?-of nothing but those long coarse hairs from the lion’s mane.”
    â€œReally,” said the wren.
    â€œYes indeed,” said Freginald. “Wear like iron, you know. I’ve seen dip-dip nests that were twenty years old and as good as the day they were made.”
    â€œThat animal with you is a lion, isn’t he?” asked the wren.
    â€œYes, but, boy, how he cherishes that mane! None of our dip-dips get any building material from him. Uh, uh; not Leo. He says it’s nothing in his life what color their children grow up to be.”
    â€œColor?” asked the wren. “What’s that got to do with it?”
    â€œOh, I forgot,” said Freginald. “Why, I don’t think there’s any truth in it, but the dip-dips claim that children reared in a nest made of lion’s hair are much brighter colored. Doesn’t sound reasonable, though, does it?”
    â€œWell, I don’t know,” said the wren. “Look, do you suppose that lion—”
    â€œNo, no. Not a chance,” said Freginald quickly. “Pshaw, I’m sorry I spoke of it. Why, Leo’d go to the rack before he’d let you touch a hair of that mane.”
    â€œI don’t care for myself,” said the wren. “But I do like the children to have all the advantages I can give them. And while up here it doesn’t matter so much, down in South America in the winter there are so many bright birds—toucans and parrots and humming-birds—well, you just can’t