WREN: noisy mother so staunch in defence of her newborn

TINY and furtive, there is something almost mouse-like about the wren as it goes about its daily hunt for food in bushes or hedgerows.

Still one of our commonest birds, it is no less charming for that.

Not as small or colourful as a goldcrest, its perky demeanour and stubby tail nevertheless endears the wren to most observers.

Weighing in at a mere 10 grammes, the wren punches well above its weight when singing or chattering in anger at an intruder.

Unlike the soft, almost imperceptible 'tseee tseee' of the goldcrest, the harsh, rattling 'chitit' of the wren often comes as a surprise when you realise the bird that made it is only 9 cms long.

I was out bird-watching recently and happened to pass a wren's nest just as the fledglings emerged en masse to try their luck in the big bad world. The scolding the mother wren gave me was impressive.

My presence obviously could not have come at a worse time for her.

But as her fledglings scattered into the surrounding undergrowth, the mother stayed close to the nest site, trying to divert my attention away from her vulnerable brood.

It was a brave action by what, despite its size, is one of the pluckiest of birds.

Shakespeare himself alluded to this fact when he wrote:"The poor wren, the most diminutive of birds, will fight - her young ones in her nest - against the owl."

Even so, the mother wren I encountered was probably relieved when the towering human scrutinising her family finally moved on.

Feeding mostly on insects and some seeds, wrens often have a bigger battle than most birds to survive harsh winters.

The fact that they always manage to come back after numbers are decimated by heavy frosts stands as a tribute to the innate toughness of the species.

Wrens lay five or six white, slightly speckled eggs, in deep, beautifully crafted nests at the base of trees or in any available crevice.

When I was too young and daft to know any better, I used to examine the eggs of bird species and remember the sheer snugness of the wren's nest above all others.

On a cold day, the warmth generated within its soft, domed construction was amazing.

Incidentally, daft as I was, I was never an egg stealer.

Even today, some people will nab eggs, put pinprick holes in them, remove the contents, then add the lifeless, empty shell to their illegal 'collection'.

Of course, they say they can admire the eggs far longer in this state but I've never understood the logic of that kind of admiration.

Any eggs I examined were safely returned.

However, in retrospect, it is always better to leave both eggs and nest untouched.