66 FRESH FIELDS 



and a blackbird's nest; but I said I had already 

 seen several of these and my curiosity was satisfied. 

 Did they know any others? Yes, several of them; 

 beyond the village, on the Middlebie road, they 

 knew a wren's nest with eighteen eggs in it. Well, 

 I would see that, and that would be enough; the 

 coppers were changing pockety too fast. So through 

 the village we went, and along the Middlebie road 

 for nearly a mile. The boys were as grave and 

 silent as if they were attending a funeral; not a 

 remark, not a smile. We walked rapidly. The 

 afternoon was warm, for Scotland, and the tips of 

 their ears glowed through their locks, as they wiped 

 their brows. I began to feel as if I had had about 

 enough walking myself. "Boys, how much farther 

 is it?" I said. "A wee bit farther, sir;" and 

 presently, by their increasing pace, I knew we were 

 nearing it. It proved to be the nest of the willow 

 wren, or willow warbler, an exquisite structure, 

 with a dome or canopy above it, the cavity lined 

 with feathers and crowded with eggs. But it did 

 not contain eighteen. The boys said they had been 

 told that the bird would lay as many as eighteen 

 eggs; but it is the common wren that lays this 

 number, even more. What struck me most was 

 the gravity and silent earnestness of the boys. As 

 we walked back they showed me more nests that 

 had been harried. The elder boy's name was 

 Thomas. He had heard of Thomas Carlyle; but 

 when I asked him what he thought of him, he only 

 looked awkwardly upon the ground. 



