be married," said the little Cure.



THE WREN.


A LEGEND.

Early on St. Stephen's Day--which is the day after Christmas--young
John Cara, son of old John Cara, the smith of Porthennis, took down
his gun and went forth to kill small birds. He was not a sportsman;
it hurt him to kill any living creature. But all the young men in
the parish went slaughtering birds on St. Stephen's Day; and the
Parson allowed there was warrant for it, because, when St. Stephen
had almost escaped from prison, a small bird (by tradition a wren)
had chirped, and awakened his gaolers.

Strange to say, John Cara's dislike of gunning went with a singular
aptitude for it. He had a quick sense with birds; could guess their
next movements just as though he read their minds; and rarely missed
his aim if he took it without giving himself time to think.

Now the rest of youths, that day, chose the valley bottoms as a
matter of course, and trooped about in parties, with much whacking of
bushes. But John went up to Balmain--which is a high stony moor
overlooking the sea--because he preferred to be alone, and also
because, having studied their ways, he knew this to be the favourite
winter haunt of the small birds, especially of the wrens and the
titlarks.