Early though it was in the summer, this hot spell of weather had set the birds mating, and suddenly from the elms across the field beyond the bridge, there sounded the bubbling song of some love-entranced nightingale. Liquid and clear it rose and fell, with all spring behind it and all the promise of summer to follow. Four long notes it gave, and broke into a torrent of jubilant melody. It rose to the height of its ecstasy and suddenly stopped.
“Good bird,” said Jim appreciatively. “I call that sense.”
“Yes. Glad we came down here. But I’m glad Badders didn’t come too. It would have reminded him of that wench in the tobacconist’s shop, and he’d have told us about her bosom or her ankles, or something. Poor Badders; I do hate sentimental stuff. Lord! Wasn’t it funny about my grandmother?”
“Yes; you see, Badders prides himself on always being in love. He isn’t an atom; he doesn’t know what it means. He doesn’t care for the girl; he only cares for her nose or her arms. If he was in love he couldn’t jaw about it.”
Birds spat neatly over the parapet.
“I wonder. Perhaps there are different ways of being in love. But what a gay dog! Do you remember him at the fair in Midsummer Common, two girls, one on each knee and another round his neck. Something female he wants, and he doesn’t care what it is.”
“I know; that’s what’s so puzzling. I could understand if it was one girl he wanted, but it isn’t. Any old thing will do, as long as it’s young.”
“‘Well, I suppose it’s natur’. She’s a rum ’un, is Natur’,’ said Mr. Squeers. Badders is asleep by this time, dreaming of them all. I’d sooner be awake, leaning over this bridge.”
“Same here,” said Jim. “But Badders is a sensual sentimentalist. That’s what he is.”
Jim’s arm was conveniently laid out along the parapet, so Birds rested his chin on it.