I have been waging war on the thistles for a day and a half.  They offend me with their prickles, their height (some taller than me) and the ease with which they spread.  I had to pull them up before their multiple heads flowered and spread their seeds over the entire vegetable garden. I armed myself with a fork, a spade, some shears and a stout pair of gardening gloves.

My hands are covered in scratches but I took out every thistle by the root and now the earth is covered with mounds of dead weeds.

As I reached the very last row of thistles I dug the spade into the earth and the long grass. I heard a faint crack and looked down in horror at a nest of eleven small eggs. Jeremy assured me that they had been abandoned as they felt cold and we had not seen any sign of a bird nesting recently as we worked in the field. I buried ten of the eggs in a shallow pit and we took a picture of the eleventh.