THE WAGTAILS 73 



spray of swan's-down or sable wool. But sometimes he 

 must have a roof to his cradle, so he pulls over a few stalks 

 of dead rush, bending them into a beautiful Gothic arch, 

 lacing their springy ends into the spongy peat with dried 

 reeds bent prone, all sewn as lightly as wickerwork to the 

 spongy peat with dried pin-rush threads. 



And the door of this little house faces the east, in order 

 that the sitting bird (for they take their turns at incubation) 

 may behold the gleaming sunrise of a summer's morning 

 mayhap, but more likely that the great heat of the day may 

 not play upon its six tender nestlings when in the fulness of 

 time they are cradled — the yellowish-brown chicks that have 

 begun their battle for life. And you may sometimes know 

 the exact position of the nest, for the birds often hover over 

 the nest before dropping into it, and you may hear the 

 peculiar monotonous note of the sitting bird — a note that 

 never varies. Often, too, you may see them, on leaving the 

 nest, stop and arrange their dainty feathers before ranging 

 for food. And when the blue waters are white with water- 

 lilies and red with pond-weed, the young birds leave the 

 nest at the end of June, and you may see them on dewy 

 mornings searching over the marshes for flies and moths, 

 which they love dearly. All the summer season they follow, 

 in large parties, the stalwart marsh-mowers from daylight 

 to sunset, as they sweep down the coarse marshy crops, 

 disturbing myriads of flies and moths, upon which the yellow 

 and green families feed, regardless of the labourers. 



Amongst these followers of the fen men, too, you may occa- 

 sionally see a slenderer, shyer bird, with a beautiful blue head 

 — the blue " wangtail," as the mowers call him; but he is rare 

 — to see six in a season is to be lucky; and to find a nest 

 very rare indeed. But such was my luck upon one happy 

 May — a nest holding eggs yellower and larger than those 

 of his yellow brother. But rarely indeed is he to be seen, 

 though my wherryman was stupid enough to shoot the 

 father of the family ere the eggs were all laid. 



