THE MARSH DWELLERS 165 



about eight inches across and three inches deep, 

 made of coarse grasses ringed around with rushes. 

 Beneath the nest was a well-packed platform several 

 inches thick. I think that this was a natural pile 

 of rushes pressed down by the bird. There, under 

 the open sky, were five large eggs of a dirty bluish- 

 white, nearly ready to hatch. They were the size of 

 a small hen's egg. The very second I caught sight of 

 the nest the mother hawk came dashing through the 

 air, from some unseen perch where she had been 

 watching me with her telescopic eyes. Fifty feet 

 away, she folded her wings and dived at my head, 

 falling through the air like a stone. With her fierce 

 unflinching eyes, half -open beak, and outspread claws, 

 she looked dangerous. Ten feet away, however, 

 she swooped up and circled off in ever-widening rings, 

 screaming mournfully. Beside the nest was one 

 barred tail-feather. 



I crossed a moor, with a name of its own 

 And a certain use in the world no doubt, 



Yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone 

 'Mid the blank miles round about: 



For there I picked upon the heather 



And there I put inside my breast 

 A moulted feather, an eagle-feather! 



Well, I forget the rest. 



Something of this we felt as we lingered over this 

 long-sought nest, making notes and photographs — 

 our way of collecting. 



