

THE FAERY YEAR 



often to a certain spot, such a thicket as it builds 

 in, and yet you know from its movements that it 

 has not a nest there. Its object is food or water. 

 Lying on the bank that slopes to a narrow swamp, 

 I saw a pair of yellow-hammers repeatedly fly to 

 and fro between the hedge and a sallow having plenty 

 of undergrowth. But, as I expected, no nest was 

 here. The birds visited it for food or to quench 

 their thirst on the hot May afternoon. A dozen 

 yards away, a small bird flew twice from a gorse 

 thicket to some bunches of dwarf willow at the 

 edge of the swamp. It was so intent and so agile 

 that, catching a flash of what looked a grey-white 

 breast, I took it for a lesser whitethroat, the bonniest 

 of all the English warblers in movement. But, 

 looking closer, I found a willow wren, which ordi- 

 narily has little of the lesser whitethroat's darting, 

 flickering, restless action. 



The willow wren was building in the dwarf 

 osiers, which were naked save for their pollen- 

 dusted red tips. But at first I overlooked the 

 little hump of moss set on the bare ground among 

 the stems. The nest faces north, the ground is 

 wet enough now if June should be rainy, the 

 young birds will hardly survive, for the whole 

 lower part of the nest must be water-logged. 

 Around are dry grassy spots in the bank where 

 the bird might have built. Yet she prefers this 

 unpromising site. She may have chosen with 

 wisdom, but it is not manifest. This willow wren 

 is rather a shyer builder than I hoped, considering 

 120 



