The Blackbird had also come across a most remarkable nest, that of the golden-crested wren. "My old friend, the Rook, tells me," said the Blackbird, "that this wren is the very smallest of our birds. He certainly is a great beauty with his crown of golden feathers. His nest is in yonder yew-tree. It seems large for a bird of his size. It is almost entirely built of moss, and, can you believe it, the wren uses spider's webs to bind it together! It seemed to be hanging from the bough, and was so well hidden by another bough, that I did not see it until I had flown quite into the middle of the tree. The opening in the nest is so small, I don't believe you could have got even your little head in; but I had a good peep, and saw its lining of soft warm feathers, and counted ten of the palest, tiniest eggs you can possibly imagine." The following day the Blackbird had other tidings for his wife. He had been to a stream in the neighbourhood,--the Brawl. Its banks were gay with marsh marigolds, and while he was hopping and frisking about there, he had met a very curious-looking bird, a ring-ousel. This creature was rather shy and had not long arrived from the south, where he usually spent the winter. He was a pretty fellow, with black plumage and a white crescent round his throat, and his song was very sweet indeed. He had few relations in England, for he was what folks call a rare bird, and the Blackbird was sorry for it, for he thought him both pretty and attractive. The following day the Blackbird had a long talk with the Rook. The latter was perched on an elm, whose leaves were just beginning to burst forth, and it was there that the Blackbird joined him. Rooks' nests, made of rough-looking sticks, many of them containing one or more blue eggs, were to be seen dotted here and there along the avenue of elms, and the cawing and the gossip, to say nothing of the quarrelling, was almost deafening. The Blackbird settled on a bough close to the Rook, and as he did so he noticed some swallows skimming over the lawn far below them. They were beautiful birds, their blue-black plumage glinted in the sunshine, and now and then a quick turn displayed their brown throats and white breasts. They were darting hither and thither, so rapidly that the eye could hardly follow them, catching the many-winged insects as they flew by. Then they would suddenly dart off to the topmost gables of the old mansion, where their compact mud nests could be plainly seen against the dark gray stones. "I remember," said the Blackbird, "watching those swallows a long, long time ago, when I was quite a fledgeling; but I haven't seen one all the winter. Where can they have been all this time?"