Ahead and on his left all the moorland
twinkled too, with the comings and goings of the birds. The wrens
mostly went about their business--whatever that might be--in a sharp,
practical way, keeping silence; but the frail note of the titlarks
sounded here, there, everywhere.
Young John might have shot scores of them. But, as he headed for the
old mine-house of Balmain and the cromlech, or Main-Stone, which
stands close beside it--and these are the only landmarks--he did not
even trouble to charge his gun. For the miracle was happening
already.
It began--as perhaps most miracles do--very slowly and gently,
without his perceiving it; quite trivially, too, and even absurdly.
It started within him, upon a thought that wren-pie was a foolish
dish after all! His mother, who prided herself upon making it, did
but pretend to enjoy it after it was cooked. His father did not even
pretend: the mass of little bones in it cheated his appetite and
spoiled his temper. From this, young John went on to consider.
"Was it worth while to go on killing wrens and shamming an appetite
for them, only because a wren had once informed against St.
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