THE NEST IN THE GRASS. 147 



carefully taking his bearings by certain small 

 elm-trees, and searching diligently about for an 

 inconspicuous dead twig he had planted as a 

 guide-post, our leader confidently waded into 

 the green depths, parted the stalks in a certain 

 spot, and bade us look. 



We did. In a cosy cup, almost under our 

 feet, were cuddled together three bird-babies. 



"Bobolinks?" we cried in a breath. 



"Yes, bobolinks," said our guide; "and you 

 had to wait for an old haK-blind man to find 

 them for you." 



We were too much delighted to be annoyed 

 by his teasing; a bobolink's nest we never 

 hoped to see. 



Nor should we, but for a discovery of mine 

 that very morning. Walking down that same 

 road, I had noticed in the deep grass near the 

 path a climip of exquisite wild flowers. They 

 were of gorgeous coloring, shaded from deep 

 orange to rich yeUow, full petaled like an Eng- 

 lish daisy, and about the size of that flower, with 

 the edge of every tiny petal cut in fairy-like 

 fringe. I admired them for some minutes as 

 they grew, and then gathered a handful to grace 

 my room. As I came up to the house, my host 

 stood on the steps ; his eyes fell at once upon my 

 nosegay, and a look of horror came into his face. 



My heart sank. Had I unwittingly picked 



