A YOUNG MARSH HAWK 137 



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 pleasure. Such a 

 quiet, secluded, grass-grown highway as we 

 moved along was itself a rare treat. Seques- 

 tered was the word that the little valley sug- 

 gested, and peace the feeling the road evoked. 

 The farmer, whose fields lay about us, half 

 grown with wxeds and bushes, evidently did 

 not make stir or noise enough to disturb any- 

 thing. 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 pros- 

 trate thorn- bush. 



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

 pausing within ten feet of it, and pointing to 

 the spot with his stick. 



In a moment or two we could make out the 

 mottled brown plumage of the sitting bird. 

 Then w^e approached her cautiously till we l^ent 

 above her. 



She never moved a feather. 

 Then I put my cane down in the brush be- 

 hind her. We wanted to see the eggs, yet did 

 not want rudely to disturb the sitting hen. 

 She would not move. 



Then I put down my hand within a few 

 inches of her ; still she kept her place. Should 

 we have to lift her off bodily ? 



Then the young lady put down her hand, 



