“An I were thee, Master William,” suddenly said Jacob Trusty, looking up from his task, and leaning his double-chin meditatively upon the crossbar of his fork—“an I were thee, I should go a birds’-nesting this fine afternoon.”
“Birds’-nesting, Jacob! Why, there aren’t any yet, are there? Isn’t it too early?”
“Hist, lad! Dost know the old sheepfold in Went Vale yonder? I saw a stormcock’s nest in the elm above it a week since. There will be eggs in that, I doubt not. Mind—”
But I was gone. I had not been a birds’-nesting that year, for it was but the second or third week in March, and with us the birds do not generally nest before April, saving the stormcock, or missel-thrush, as some call it, which builds in March, so that when Jacob spoke of the matter I was fresh and eager, and crossed the fold and was over the wall and running across the home meadows ere he could tell me to mind not to break my neck, with which counsel all his information usually ended.
It was a beautiful day, one of those perfect days which come in spring, and make us thank God for very joy of life. As I ran across the meadows that lie between Dale’s Field and the head of Went Vale, I noticed that the grass wore a brighter green, that the hedgerows were beginning to bud, that the ash and elm were already starting into new life, and that everything was foretelling the new arrival of what Master Herrick the poet calls “the sweet o’ the year.” Yea, as I ran alongside a great hedge seeking some convenient gap or opening, I became aware of the odour of violets, which is, I think, the most beautiful scent that ever delighted a man’s nostrils. And eager as I was to get forward to the old sheepfold, I could not but stop on smelling the violets, and gather a few. Only a country-bred lad, indeed, could find them so quickly as I did, for, mark you, the violets are a modest and retiring people, and love to hide themselves from the common eye. So you must turn up the glossy broad leaves which cover their retreat, and push aside the brambles under whose protection they love to grow, and then you will find them, heavenly blue and fragrant, nestling under the hedges like tender children that dread the rough world. And not only violets did I find that afternoon, but also early primroses, whose pale yellow faces met me as soon as I entered the wood. And at seeing them I laughed aloud for joy, for it is a saying with us that spring is fairly come when primroses flower. And, laughing and singing, I went through the woods that stretch along the right bank of Went, making a posy of violets and primroses, and thinking how pleased my mother would be when I took them to her, and how she would put them in a jar of fresh water, and place them in the windowsill of her own chamber. For we country folk, though some might not think it of us, are fond of the flowers and blossoms that are all about our homes, and do make as much of our first primrose or violet as a town-bred fine dame will of a rare jewel.
With the blue sky peeping at me through the trees, and the crying of newborn lambs (true and blessed sign that spring is come again) in my ears, I went along the woods. I passed above the mill at Wentbridge, where the stream was pouring through the wheelhouse like a cataract, and turned by a steep path towards the old sheepfold, which was a rough place of four walls and a thatched roof, where we had kept sheep at such times as they were out at pasture in the valley just beneath. There was a clearing all round the sheepfold, and this was hedged in from the wood by a straggling belt of trees, amongst which the most prominent was a great elm that had once been struck by lightning, and had since only blossomed in a few of its boughs. And it was in the thick of these, where the fresh green shoots were just beginning to bud, that I espied the stormcock’s nest of which Jacob Trusty had told me.
Now, I had never yet been daunted in the matter of climbing tree or tower, and as for fear, I knew not what it was, nevertheless I paused and meditated before climbing the elm that afternoon. For the stormcock, wise beyond his station, had fixed his house where the boughs were not strong enough to bear me or any boy capable of climbing. Nevertheless, I was not to be easily worsted, and spying a bough underneath the nest from which it seemed probable that I should be able to reach over, I took off cap and coat and began to climb up the rough trunk of the elm. This part of the business was easy enough, for a quantity of ivy grew round that elm, and the twisted strands made good purchase. Likewise, it was easy enough when, having done with the ivy, I clambered out along the bough towards the spot where the nest hung swaying in the twigs above. But being arrived there, I came to a standstill, for the nest was a good foot above the full stretch of my arm, and therefore out of my reach. This disconcerted me for a time, but I made up my mind to carry home an egg in triumph, and therefore cast about for fresh means. And nothing seeming better than to lay hold of an overhanging bough, and swing myself up to the
