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?