CHAPTER XIII 



THE HERRING-SPINK* 



As the North Sea fishermen call that mighty soul in that 

 little body — the Golden-Crested Wren — is rather rare about 

 the Broad district, though numbers may be seen on the sea- 

 coast nearly every autumn. But at times you see them 

 farther inland where the sluggish water sleeps on the lazy 

 weed. 



One April morning I sailed over the sleepy tide between 

 walls of fresh young gladen that shimmered with chameleon- 

 like colours as the soft winds blew it this way and that — 

 now showing dark as the green ribbons faced you, now 

 shimmering as they waved idly from side to side, anon 

 glancing and showing green when the wind filled your sail 

 from behind and tugged at the sheet asking for more, and 

 lastly dyed with blue along the edges — a pale blue reft from 

 the azure overhead — a blue that made the fenman's red- 

 brown freckled features cerulean and dyed the backs of the 

 grazing flocks. After leaving this water-way and its magic 

 beauteous glances, we drew up to a decaying landing-stage, 

 startling the sporting fish over the green hair-weed, ere 

 we took our way to the sea, which the dead ragworts and 

 rabbit-eaten thistle-roots proved we were nearing. Indeed 

 we were close upon it, and turning into a sandy lane, the 

 gap in the dunes gaped intensely blue before us. Beyond 

 we could hear the cry of the sea, and not even a broody 

 hedge-sparrow that limped cunningly before us attracted 



* I have seen the Fire-Crested Wren once in the Broadlands. 



33 C 



