“Here; running away with your fish by the dozen,” said the wagtail.
“Well, get out of the way,” said the kingfisher, bustling out of the nest and going towards the mouth of the hole. “There, do make haste.”
But the wagtail couldn’t make haste, for his tail was so long he could not turn round in the hole, and so had to walk backwards the best way he could, with the points of his tail-feathers catching against the wall and sending him forwards upon his beak, and making the old kingfisher so crabby, that at last he gave the poor wagtail a dig with his heavy beak that made him cry out, “Peek-peek-peek.”
“Then why don’t you get out of the way, when all one’s fish are being taken and stolen?”
Now the wagtail thought this very strange behaviour, when he had taken the trouble to let old Ogrebones know, and so he very wisely made up his mind never to interfere with other people’s business again; for, said he, as he got out of the hole at last, “I don’t know but what the heron has as good a right to the fish as old surly has; at all events, I’ll never fetch him out any more.”
Out bounced the kingfisher—“Here! hi! I say! you, there! what are you after, impudence? Do you know that you are poaching?”
“Eh?” said the heron, looking at the showy little bird that was flitting round him with his feathers sticking up, and looking as though he were in a terrible passion; “Eh?” said the heron, “what’s poaching?”
“What’s poaching, ignoramus? why, taking other people’s fish. Don’t you know who I am?” said the kingfisher, sitting upon a spray and looking very self-satisfied and important.
“No,” said the heron; “I don’t know you. But you are not a bad-looking little fellow; only you are small—very small. Why, where are your legs?”