THE SADDLEBACK 161 
wrapt in the ecstasy of brooding that she allowed 
me to lift the kit from its nail and carry her forth 
still sitting to show to my companions. She 
appeared to be perfectly unconcerned, her plumage 
fluffed out to the utmost, her side feathers made to 
cover completely the outer margin of the nest. 
It was a critical period when greatest warmth 
was required. The beak of one chick already 
protruded from the shell; the second egg was 
chipped. Unalarmed, she was returned to her 
comfortable quarters within the dry gloom of 
the hut.+ 
1 On the morning of lst December I again visited this kit nest, 
and whilst waiting for the advent of the male Saddleback with 
food, searched the interior of the hut, lest perchance a Robin 
should have also utilised it for nesting purposes. Whilst thus 
occupied, a well-thumbed volume caught my eye, which, opened 
at random, revealed the magic names, Nupkins, Weller, Jingle. 
It was ‘ Pickwick,’ and I pleased myself with the thought that I 
was reading perhaps the southernmost copy in the world of the 
Master. Captain Fitzmarshall, alias Mr Jingle of Nohall, No- 
where, was being denounced before Mr, Mrs, and cruel Miss 
Henrietta Nupkins—Miss Henrietta, who had “ jilted old lover— 
Sidney Porkenham—rich—not so rich as Captain, though ”—for 
the dashing Fitzmarshall. In that deserted hut, alone with the 
brooding Saddleback, I heard Mr Pickwick inculcating his high 
moral lesson, his left hand beneath his coat-tails, his right ex- 
tended in air; [ listened to the lamentations of the Nupkins’ 
ladies: “* How can we ever show ourselves in society 2?” ‘*‘ How 
can we face the Porkenhams? or the Griggs? or the Slummin- 
towkins ?”’ I may add that I found in another hut one of brave 
old Marryat’s sea yarns. It is often said that nobody reads old- 
fashioned writers, yet here at the back of beyond, and by those 
employed in the very roughest work, good stuff would seem to 
have been appreciated. 
L 
