WHERE GRASS IS GREEN. 171 



over the fields with their pouches full o' fish, them 

 'ere sparrer-hawks that sets on the fir-tops waitin' 

 for the young pigeons to come out for their first fly, 

 gits a sight on 'em, an' goes fur 'em. They can't 

 hurt 'em much, but the herons gits frightened an' 

 chucks out some o' the fish. That's how fish gits 

 littered about. 



" Come on along o' me, I got sumthin' to show 

 ye, not ten yards from here, right in the path. 

 What do ye think of that now for a bit o' bird- 

 plasterin' ? Ye ain't a-goin' to pull that out, look 

 here ! " Hooking his middle finger into the hole, 

 he pulled with all his strength, but nothing moved. 

 It was where a nuthatch had plastered a hole up, 

 where a limb had rotted, in order to guard her nest 

 of leaves below. 



" I calls 'em tree-climbers. Bit of good work, 

 ain't it ? She must ha' gone a middlin' distance to 

 git her mud an' stuff sich weather as this is, eh ? " 



The hole so cleverly plastered up, on examination 

 proved to be enough for a man to get his arm in 

 up to the snoulder. It was breast-high, and faced 

 directly on to the path in fact, it was impossible 

 to pass by it without brushing the bole of the beech 



