8 WITHIN AN HOUR OF LONDON TOWN. 



finch's nest. Pick up a little of that velvet-like 

 moss, wrap the eggs in it, and place them carefully 

 in the nest. Now we can jog on. 



Up we go to gain the moor. On a bare space, 

 over which the dewberry trails here and there, 

 and bits of peat and fir-twigs lie scattered amongst 

 fragments of red stone, from under our very 

 feet as it seems, " Flip, flip, flip," and a squeak, 

 and two birds rise and drop again in the heath. 

 Fern owls they are ; stand quiet, they have young 

 close to you. Crawl under that large juniper, where 

 the boughs sweep the ground. We have not long to 

 wait. Here they come and settle close to what looks 

 like a bit of stone with a patch or two of yellowish 

 grey lichen on it, and a dead leaf by the side. All 

 at once the seeming stone and dead leaf move and 

 prove to be two young fern owls. Leaving your 

 hiding-place you go to look at them, the parents 

 tumbling about the while near you. There they 

 squat, two blinking, gaping, noodling lumps of fluff. 



Taking one in our hand, it winks, opens its mouth 

 and then noodles down in the hand, sleepy. After 

 a good look at the young Evejars as the children 

 call them we leave them to grow and prosper. 



