A fortnight passed. I had seen little or nothing of Mr. Harrod till one afternoon when, with a volume of Walter Scott under my arm, I had taken my basket to get some ' eggs off the . I had wandered a long way far beyond that part of the that lay beneath the village and was apt to be frequented by passers-by, and I had already about a dozen eggs in my little basket, when I heard some one whistling down behind the reeds on the opposite side of the bank.
It might have been a shepherd. There was a track across the level here, and none but the shepherds knew it; but somehow I did not think it was a shepherd. I sat down upon the turf, for the bulrushes in the dike had not yet grown to any height, and I did not want to be seen.
"Taff!" called a voice.
Yes, it was Mr. Harrod. I had missed the St. Bernard when I had been coming out, and had wondered where he had gone, for I had wanted him for a companion—Luck, the sheep-dog being out with Reuben. I wondered how it was that Mr. Harrod could have taken him.
I sat quite still among the rushes, where I had been looking for the birds'-nests. I did not want to be seen, and, as far as I remembered, there was no over the dike just here. But there was some one who knew the marsh better than I did. It was the dog. As soon as he got opposite to where I was, he began barking loudly, and then he ran back some hundred yards and stood still, barking and wagging his tail, and as plainly as possible his companion to follow him.
Mr. Harrod must have loved dogs almost as much as I did, for he actually turned back, and when he came to where Taff stood he laughed. There was evidently a plank there, and I suppose he must have guessed that he was expected for some reason to cross over. He did so, and Taff followed. The dog tore along the path to me, and Mr. Harrod followed slowly. He did not seem at all surprised to see me. He came towards me with a book in his hand.
[123]
"I think you must have dropped this," he said, handing it to me. "We found it just down yonder."
He said "we." It must have been the sagacity of that wretched dog which had betrayed me, for there was no name in the book. I took it reluctantly; I was rather ashamed of my love of reading. Girls in the country were not supposed usually to be fond of reading. If it hadn't been for those good old-fashioned novels in father's library, mother would have considered the Bible, and as much news as was needed not to make one appear a fool, as much literature as any woman required. A love of reading might be considered an affectation in me, and there was nothing of which I had such a horror as affectation.
I took the book in silence—my manners did not mend—and stooped down to pat the dog. I wanted to move away, but I didn't quite know how to do it. Taffy wagged his tail as if he hadn't seen me for weeks. Foolish beast! If he was so fond of me, why did he go after strangers so easily?
"Taff knows the marsh," said I, for the sake of saying something.
"Famously," said Mr. Harrod. "He shows me the way everywhere. We are the best of friends."
I frowned. Was it an apology for having taken my dog?
"Taff will follow any one," I said, roughly.
It was not true, for Taff had never been known to follow any one before; and even as I said it, I wondered if Mr. Harrod were one of those whom "the beasts love," but he took no notice of my rudeness.
"What have you got there?" asked he, looking into my basket.
"Plovers' eggs," answered I. "There are lots on the marsh nearer the beach."
"Lapwings' eggs," corrected he, taking one in his hand.
"Oh no! plovers' eggs," insisted I. "They are sold as plovers' eggs in the shops in town as well as here."
"Yes," smiled he. "They are sold as plovers' eggs all over the London market also, but the lapwing—or the pewit, as you call it—lays them for all that. It is a bird of the family, but it should not properly be called a plover."
I bit my lip.
"Of course those are not all plovers' eggs," said I, taking up one of a creamy color with brown, which was quite different to the gray ones mottled with black, that seemed to have been designed to[124] escape detection on the gray beach, where they are generally found. "This is a dabchick's egg."
"I see you know more about birds than most young ladies do," said Mr. Harrod; "but I should call that a moor-hen's egg. And as for the gray plover, it is a bird; it does not breed in England."
I suppose I still looked unconvinced, for he added, pleasantly, "Come, I'll bet you anything you like; and if we can be lucky enough to find a bird on the eggs, I'll prove it you now."
He turned round and began walking slowly along the bank of the dike, close to the water's edge. I gave Taff a friendly to keep him quiet, for he was rather excitable, and it was necessary that we should be very if we wanted to surprise the bird sitting.
Mr. Harrod crept cautiously along, and I followed; I was as anxious now as he was, and by this simple means I was into a walk with my sworn enemy. A brown bird with a long bill got up among the reeds, and flew in a halting manner down to the water. It was a water-rail, and Mr. Harrod said so—for these birds are rarer upon the dike than the moor-hens and pewits, of which there are a great number, and I suppose he imagined I would not know it.
Something moved in the growing rushes at our feet; but it was only a couple of black moor-hens, who took to their heels, so to speak, with great , and made little flights in the air with their legs hanging down and their bodies very . We stood and laughed at them a minute, they were so very absurd out of their proper element; but when they took to the water they were pretty enough, the little red shields out upon their black foreheads as they jerked their heads in swimming.
I came upon a mother moor-hen presently tending her little brood; the large flat nest, built of dried rushes, lay in the overhanging branches of a willow-shrub, and she stood on the bank hard by. She did not fly or run away as other birds do when frightened, but stood there as if in anger, and fluttering anxiously round the place where the six little balls of black down showed their red heads above the edge of the nest.
I held Taff by the collar, to prevent his doing any , and we left the poor faithful mother undisturbed. We had not found any plovers' eggs since we had begun to look. They are always hard to find, being laid upon the open ground, sometimes on the very beach, where they almost look like little themselves, and sometimes in and of the earth, but always without any[125] nest to mark the place. I suppose I had pretty well this particular reach.
About a hundred yards farther on, however, the strange cry that distinguishes the bird we sought fell upon our ears; a cock lapwing flew up, his long feathery , and tumbled over and over in the air in the manner to his kind, uttering all the while the "cheep, cheep" that means and anxiety.
Mr. Harrod held out a warning hand behind him as he crept forward gently on tiptoe, and I was obliged to be silent, although I was particularly anxious to speak. Presently he to me to advance, and as I did so I saw the hen-bird running along the bank as close to the ground as possible, while in a close by my feet lay the pretty, gray-spotted eggs that we were looking for.
Mr. Harrod turned and looked at me with a little smile, which I chose to think was one of triumph. "That proves nothing," said I. "I call that bird a plover, a green plover. I can't help it if you call it something else. Of course, I know there's another sort of plover; the golden plover, but no one could confuse the two, for this one has got a crest on its head which it lifts up and down when it likes."
"Oh, I beg your pardon," answered he. "I see you know all about it. It's only a confusion of terms."
I flushed and stooped down to pick up the eggs.
"No, don't," said he; "let the poor thing have them. You will see, she will fly back as soon as we have gone away."
We stepped back into the path, and surely, in a moment, the two parents met in the air, tumbling over together, and still uttering their plaintive cry. Then presently the hen-bird floated down again and returned to her patient duty; and soon her mate followed her also, and both were hidden among the rushes.
I turned round with a little laugh. I had thought I was annoyed; but the fact is, I was too happy to be annoyed.
The of a tender gray sky, fashioned of many and many soft clouds, floating over and past one another, and lightening a little where the sun should have been, was spread over the ground; the sea was gray, too, beyond the flats, melting into the gray sky, the white headland in the distance, and the gray towers along the shore seemed very near and distinct; sheep wandered up and down the banks of the dike, cropping ; the air was soft and . My heart beat with a sense of satisfaction that was unlike anything I had ever felt before; and yet many was the time that I had[126] been out on the marsh on just such a soft day, among the birds and the beasts whom I loved.
"Listen," said I, presently, breaking the pleasant silence, as a loud, screaming bird's note, by no means beautiful, but full of associations, came across the marsh. "The swifts are beginning to sing; that means summer indeed."
A little company of the lovely black birds came towards us, flying wildly in circles above the dike, the water as they skimmed its surface, and then away again over the meadows.
"I wonder how it is that they are so black and when they come over to us, and so gray and when they go away?" said I.
"Have you noticed that as a fact?" ask............