THE MARSH HAWK 109 



quail's nest. Anything in the shape of a nest is 

 always welcome, it is such a mystery, such a cen- 

 tre of interest and affection, and, if upon the 

 ground, is usually something so dainty and ex- 

 quisite amid the natural wreckage and confusion. 

 A ground nest seems so exposed, too, that it al- 

 ways gives a little thrill of pleasurable surprise 

 to see the group of frail eggs resting there be- 

 hind so slight a barrier. I will walk a long dis- 

 tance any day just to see a song sparrow's nest 

 amid the stubble or under a tuft of grass. It is 

 a jewel in a rosette of jewels, with a frill of 

 weeds or turf. A quail's nest I had never seen, 

 and to be shown one within the hunting-ground 

 of this murderous hawk would be a double pleas- 

 ure. Such a quiet, secluded, grass-grown high- 

 way as we moved along was itself a rare treat. 

 Sequestered was the word that the little valley 

 suggested, and peace the feeling the road evoked. 

 The farmer, whose fields lay about us, half grown 

 with weeds and bushes, evidently did not make 

 stir or noise enough to disturb anything. Beside 

 this rustic highway, bounded by old mossy 

 stone walls, and within a stone's throw of the 

 farmer's barn, the quail had made her nest. It 

 was just under the edge of a prostrate thorn- 

 bush. 



"The nest is right there," said the farmer, 



