IN THE ORCHARD. 33 
singing in such a place. But the greatest 
wonder of all was reserved till he flew down 
to a pear-tree, and there, plainly visible for all 
the world to see, discovered a nest. 
Our big, bold bird, the biggest of all British 
songsters, in fact—our mistle-thrush, to give 
him his quaint, Christmas-like name—with his 
- wife, had put some work into that nest. 
The outer wall was a basket-work of thickly 
plaited lichen, twigs, and roots; then came a 
‘damp course,’ to use the builders’ term ; and 
within all a lining of grass, &c. Not, you 
will concede, the sort of edifice easily or 
quickly built. 
His mate sat on the nest, hiding five 
greenish-white eggs, spotted with rust; and 
although she appeared to have no life in her, 
or interest in life, it was noticeable that suc- 
cessively an exploring mouse, a not altogether 
innocent jackdaw, and a bold, jet blackbird, 
who perched there and nearly ran into her, 
gave one glance, and went away, as it were, on 
tiptoe. 
Our friend gave one long look at his wife 
to make sure she was there, and departed 
again, flying silently his odd, drooping flight, 
high over the orchard, to a neighbouring 
pasture, where it is on record that a small, 
or young, hawk, ‘stooping’ at him in mistake, 
