I
Mrs. Thrush. What do you think of that hawthorn?
Mr. Thrush. Oh, no, my dear, no; much too isolated, it would attract attention at once. I can hear the boys on a Sunday afternoon—“Hullo, there’s a tree that’s bound to have a nest in it.” And then where are you? You know what boys are on a Sunday afternoon? You remember that from last year, when we lost the finest clutch of eggs in the county.
Mrs. Thrush. Stop, stop, dear, I can’t bear it. Why do you remind me of it?
Mr. Thrush. There, there, compose yourself, my pretty. What other suggestions have you?
Mrs. Thrush. One of the laurels, then, in the shrubbery at the Great House.
Mr. Thrush. Much better. But the trouble there is the cat.
Mrs. Thrush. Oh, dear, I wish you’d find a place without me; I assure you (blushing) it’s time.
Mr. Thrush. Well, my notion, as I have said all along, is that there’s nothing to beat the very middle of a big bramble. I don’t mind whether it’s in the hedge or whether it’s on the common. But it must be the very middle. It doesn’t matter very much then whether it’s seen or not, because no one can reach it.
Mrs. Thrush. Very well, then, be it so; but do hurry with the building, there’s a dear.
II
Mr. Tree-Creeper. I’ve had the most extraordinary luck. Listen. You know that farmhouse by the pond. Well, there’s a cow-shed with a door that won’t shut, and even if it would, it’s got a hole in it, and in the roof, at the very top, there’s a hollow. It’s the most perfect place you ever saw, because, even if the farmer twigged us, he couldn’t get at the nest without pulling off a lot of tiles. Do you see?
Mrs. Tree-Creeper. It sounds perfect.
Mr. Tree-Creeper. Yes, but it’s no use waiting here. We must collar it at once. There were a lot of prying birds all about when I was there, and I noticed a particularly nosey flycatcher watching me all the time. Come along quick; and you’d better bring a piece of hay with you to look like business.
III
Mr. Wren. Well, darling, what shall it be this year—one of those boxes at “The Firs,” or the letter-box at “Meadow View,” where the open-air journalist lives, or shall we build for ourselves like honest wrens?
Mrs. Wren. I leave it to you, dearest. Just as you wish.
Mr. Wren. No, I want your help. I’ll just give you the pros and cons.
Mrs. Wren. Yes, dear, do; you’re so clear-headed.
Mr. Wren. Listen then. If we use the nest-box there’s nothing to do, no fag of building, but we have to put up with visitors peeping in every day and pawing the eggs or the kids about. If we use the letter-box we shall have to line it, and there will be some of the same human fussiness to endure; but on the other hand, we shall become famous—we shall get into the papers. Don’t you see the heading, “Remarkable Nest in Surrey”? And then it will go on, “A pair of wrens have chosen a strange abode in which to rear their little fluffy brood——” and so forth.
Mrs. Wren. That’s rather delightful, all the same.
Mr. Wren. Finally, there is the nest which we build ourselves, running just the ordinary risks of boys and ornithologists, but feeling at any rate that we are independent. What do you say?
Mrs. Wren. Well, dearest, I think I say the last.
Mr. Wren. Good. Spoken like a brave hen. Then let’s look about for a site at once.
IV
Mr. Swallow. I’ve looked at every house with decent eaves in the whole place until I’m ready to drop.
Mrs. Swallow. What do you think about it?
Mr. Swallow. Well, it’s a puzzle. There’s the Manor House: I began with that. There is good holding there, but the pond is a long way off, and carrying mud so far would be a fearful grind. None the less it’s a well-built house, and I feel sure we shouldn’t be disturbed.
Mrs. Swallow. What about the people?
Mr. Swallow. How funny you are about the people always! Never mind. All I can find out is that there’s the squire and his wife and a companion.
Mrs. Swallow. No children?
Mr. Swallow. None.
Mrs. Swallow. Then I don’t care for the Manor House. Tell me of another.
Mr. Swallow. This is the merest sentiment; but no matter. The Vicarage next.
Mrs. Swallow. Any children there?
Mr. Swallow. No, but it’s much nearer the pond.
Mrs. Swallow. And the next?
Mr. Swallow. The farmhouse. A beautiful place with a pond at your very door. Everything you require, and lots of company. Good sheltered eaves, too.
Mrs. Swallow. Any children?
Mr. Swallow. Yes, one little girl.
Mrs. Swallow. Isn’t there any house with babies?
Mr. Swallow. Only one that could possibly be any use to us; but it’s a miserably poor place. No style.
Mrs. Swallow. How many babies?
Mr. Swallow. Twins, just born, and others of one and two and three.
Mrs. Swallow. We’ll build there.
Mr. Swallow. They’ll make a horrible row all night.
Mrs. Swallow. We’ll build there.