The Willow Wrens sang every day but one in June, the 27th, which was wet and cold. From three to five or six were heard at the same time on every fine warm morning. On cold mornings only one or two could be heard.
The evening song (after seven) was abandoned early in July. July 13th was cold, and no Willow Wren sang; 14th, two, occasionally. From 15th to 24th two could generally be heard in the morning; sometimes one. On 25th (7 to 8 a.m.) four or five were singing, sometimes chiming. 26th to 28th, five or six could be heard. 29th and 30th, cold; one heard. Thence to August 14th from one to three or four could be heard, except on the 7th, which was wet. From 14th to 17th two could generally be heard. On 18th none. 19th, two occasionally. 23rd to 28th, none.
There was no doubt of the song when audible. When two or three were singing I heard about twelve phrases per minute (counted). If any were singing I never had to listen for a minute without hearing them.
But though this year the Willow Wrens were not silent in the latter half of June, I had previously formed the opinion that in some years they are so silent, although the species is otherwise our most persistent summer singer. Had I never risen before nine o'clock I should never have noticed the July singing. Since the middle of July it has been the sole Warbler in song.
I may say I have observed the July singing of this bird for many years. A particular incident fixes my memory of one occasion of the kind. More than twenty years ago, at Stroud, I was developing into what the Americans might appropriately term a "collector-fiend," and wished to "procure" a Willow Wren. It was on the 15th of July I went to a thicket where these birds swarmed, and I shot two with a catapult, but found them in heavy moult. Another came along; he sang beautifully, and I shot him. He fell, but rose again and sat on a twig, with one thigh shattered and hanging loose. But he sang his little strain. Another came and attacked him, and he flew a few yards, while I crept after like a murderer. He sang again, his wings pulsating with the notes. I shot him dead. His death probably saved the lives of many birds, for it made me give up the procuring of specimens. But it also made me remember that the Willow Wren sings in mid-July.
