"Ye owdacious varmints, so ye means to try an' coy him off with ye, fur ter git him a quiltin', do ye, ye young rips. There's no shame in yer.”

'He wunt come

This was too much for Winder. to no hurt, we takes good care o' that; we looks arter Reed-bird. Come on, Scoot."

As Bob trundled on, Scoot slipped up behind him, tilted the old man's tarpaulin over his eyes with his crab-stick, and then shot off, mimicking the wellknown cry of Brown Shrimp-" Shrimp oh! fresh boiled brown shrimp-serrimp-serrimp!"

"We'll try that fust reed-bed close to the marsh, Scoot; he's mostly there, ef he ain't nowheres else, watching them reed sparrers. Ef we don't find him there, you an' me must go by ourselves."

As they turned the bend that led to the reeds, they saw the object of their search coming towards them. With a shout and a whoop, the pair made for him.

"Where hev ye bin, Denny? Me an' Scoot hev sarched all roun' about for ye. Ye do watch them reed sparrers long enuf, that ye do."

The boy, or rather child, they called "Reed-bird," was not more than eight years old. He looked delicate, and there was a graver expression than his years

warranted on his face, which was pale, and lit up by grey eyes, over which were well-marked eyebrows. His dress, unlike that of his companions, was well cared for and scrupulously clean. A flat cap of cloth made in quarters, each quarter piped and well stitched, covered his dark hair. In front, fastened to the band of his cap, was a single feather from the beauty-spot of a mallard's wing. What might be called a gaberdine, belted at the waist, and thrown open in front to show a white linen vandyke collar, formed the upper part of his attire. Short pantaloons reached to just below his knees, where they were met by long socks. On his feet were good strong shoes fastened with sandals.

This child, as he grew and gained strength, roamed about the marshes and the sea-shore from morning to night. His Christian name, Denzil, was abbreviated to Den by all who knew him. "Reed-bird" was the title given him by his chosen companions. Winder and Scoot were prominent amongst these, and, as far as looks went, the most disreputable. But appearances at any rate where clothes are concernedare apt to be deceptive. The two boys had no vice of any kind about them; they were full of fun and

healthy amusement, and kind-hearted in all their intercourse with their more delicate and younger companion.

"Winder an' me hed giv' ye up, Reed-bird, but here ye are; we wants ye to go crabbin'. Old Nance giv' Winder a ha'penny fur runnin' arrands for her, an' I've hed one giv' me fur bringin' some gear up; so we goes to Pewit Martin and gits some crab meat. Winder's father sez there's heaps all over the salts, the tides brought 'em up, so as ye can't see the grass fur 'em; big 'uns, he sez-bigger 'an he's sin afore. If we goes now we shel ketch 'em jest on the turn of the tide—this 'ere hamper full-chock-full o' big 'uns. Winder an' me 'ull lend ye our sticks an' lines, turn about, an' the crab meat too. We'll hev a good pile of 'em when we git home."

Pewit Martin was a butcher, so called because he kept a tame pewit in his garden to eat the slugs and other insects.

"Shan't go," jerked out the quaint, old-fashioned child, looking the pair full in the face.

"But we've got all ship-shape, purpus for ye, Reedbird," said Scoot, in his most seductive tone; "an' we've got old Diver's pitch-pot to bile 'em in. We

got him some reeds to burn when he pitched his skiff, so he burnt his pot out clean for us, a-purpose."

"Shan't go," repeated Denzil; "I'll get quilted. I wanted my dabblers on this morning to go in the reeds, and she put me these on," pointing to his gaberdine and clean linen collar; "nice, ain't it?"

And the child drew down the corners of his mouth in a way that made the two boys roar with laughter.

"Nice, ain't it?" he repeated. "I'd ha' had a reedbird's nest this morning, if it hadn't bin for these; as 'twas, I nearly had it. No, I'd like to go, but I shan't," and Denzil turned his back on his tempters.

Scoot broke down Den's wise resolution by a master-stroke. In an offhand manner he mentioned the fact that a lot of curlews were feeding close to where they intended crabbing.

"Reckly the tide turns they begins to work fur worms,” he said, “close to the boat; they're same as that dead 'un we brought yer, what ye drawed on yer slate, on'y live 'uns these is."

A change came over Denzil's grave little face-a transformation; his eyes sparkled and his lips parted in an eager smile.

"I'll go, Winder-I'll go, Scoot; but I must git

home for dinner, an' it's nearly twelve now. to you after that."

I'll git

"All right; make sail, an' git down quick. Scoot an' me's not goin' home to no dinner, but we'll wait fur ye. Git down yer gardin, cross the bowlin'-green an' into the big orchard, then inter the first ma’sh; we'll be waitin' fur ye by the perwentive ship. Ef old Budd see yer comin' he won't say nuthin to yer."

The boy was right there; old Budd was a good friend to Denzil. He liked well to have the little fellow near him, and he showed him the spots from which he could best watch what they called the snake-birds or wrynecks, and the saw - sharpening tomtits.

Half an hour later a small figure slipped out at the back of Philip Magnier's house and ran down the garden, crawled through the hedge, ran over the bowling-green at top speed, and through the orchard into the marsh, where he found his companions. Along the sea-wall they sped, in Indian file; Winder first, the child in the middle, and Scoot behind, gaily shouting and chatting to each other on matters relating to fish and fowl. All fears of a quiltin' were