We did. In a cosy cup, almost under our feet, were cuddled together three bird-babies.
"Bobolinks?" we cried in a breath.
"Yes, bobolinks," said our guide; "and you had to wait for an old half-blind man to find them for you."
We were too much delighted to be annoyed by his teasing; a bobolink's nest we never hoped to see.
Nor should we, but for a discovery of mine that very morning. Walking down that same road, I had noticed in the deep grass near the path a clump of exquisite wild flowers. They were of gorgeous coloring, shaded from deep orange to rich yellow, full petaled like an English daisy, and about the size of that flower, with the edge of every tiny petal cut in fairy-like fringe. I admired them for some minutes as they grew, and then gathered a handful to grace my room. As I came up to the house, my host stood on the steps; his eyes fell at once upon my nosegay, and a look of horror came into his face.
My heart sank. Had I unwittingly picked some of his special treasures, some rare exotic which he had cultivated with care?
"Where did you find that stuff?" he demanded. I was instantly relieved; no man will call a treasure "stuff."
"In the meadow," I answered. "What is it?"
"You must show me the exact spot," he said, emphatically. "I shall have a man out at once, to get it up, root and branch. It's the devil's paintbrush."
"Then his majesty has good taste in color," I said.