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Updated: May 10, 2025
"Was it worth while to go on killing wrens and shamming an appetite for them, only because a wren had once informed against St. Stephen? How were these wrens guilty? And, anyway, how were the titlarks guilty?" Young John reasoned it out in this simple fashion. He came to the Main-Stone, and seating himself on the turf, leaned his back against one of the blocks which support the huge monolith.
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.
Young John, now he had learnt that wrens can talk, had no difficulty in recognising this other voice: it was the half-hearted note of the titlark. He turned over on his side and peered into the shadow of the Main-Stone; but in vain, for the titlark is a hesitating, unhappy little soul that never quite dares to make up its mind. It used to be the friend of a race that inhabited Cornwall ages ago.
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