THE MARSH DWELLERS 171 



a round ball made of green grass fastened to the rushes 

 with a little hole in one side. 



"The nest of the short-billed marsh wren!" he 

 declared loudly. We hurried to him. The nest was 

 empty, but, as it was early for the wrens to be laying, 

 this fact had no effect on his triumph. We admired 

 the nest, the bird, and the discoverer freely — all 

 except the Architect, who lingered behind the rest of 

 us, regarding the nest with much suspicion. Sud- 

 denly he noted a movement in the grass, and as he 

 watched, a tawny little meadow mouse climbed up 

 the grass-stems and popped into the hole in the side, 

 to find out what this inquisitive race of giants had 

 been doing to his house. It was pitiful to see the 

 Artist. At first he denied the mouse. Then, when it 

 dashed out in front of us, he claimed that its presence 

 had nothing to do with the question of the owner- 

 ship of the nest. 



"Isn't it possible," he demanded bitterly, "that 

 a well-behaved meadow mouse may make a neigh- 

 borly call on a marsh wren?" 



"No," replied the Architect decisively; and we 

 started away from the discredited nest. 



Later on, the Artist had his revenge. We were 

 hunting everywhere for the bittern 's nest. Suddenly, 

 as the Artist stepped on a tussock, a large squawk- 

 ing bird flew out from under his foot. No wonder 

 she squawked. He had stepped so nearly on top of 

 her that, as she escaped, she left behind a handful 

 of long, beautifully mottled tail-feathers, unmis- 

 takably those of an English pheasant. The nest 



