THE MARSH DWELLERS 171 
a round ball madeof 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 
