This is the gate to one of the original Bateman farms. I like to think of my father as a boy, opening the gate and going through to the barn. Undoubtedly on that day, the ancestor of this little wren would be scolding the intruder or exuberantly singing an ode to his territory. To me, it is the unmusical music of a spring day in the rural countryside. It is entirely bucolic. - RB