“Ha-ha-ha,” said the birds, “why, that’s worse than being afraid and showing it. Why, he’s ever so much bigger than we are, and has claws sharp enough for anything. Why, he pinched one of old mother Muddle-dab’s ducklings to death with his great black nails.”
“Well, what’s to be done now?” said Specklems, “I’m not going to have him in my tree, and I won’t either. I’ve a good mind to run at him with my sharp bill and stick it into him; and I would, too, if I was sure he wouldn’t hurt me. Wouf!” said the starling, fiercely, and making a poke at nothing; “wouf! couldn’t I give it him!” And then he stuck his little pointed feathers up again, and stood on the tips of his toes with a look as fierce as a half-picked chicken.
“Of course, gentlemen, it isn’t for such a quiet mournful body as me to say anything,” said the dove, “but I can’t help thinking that the tree is as much mine as Mr Specklems’; but we won’t quarrel about that, for just now it belongs to somebody else, and I feel very uncomfortable about my young ones. Suppose Mr Specklems goes and gives the great staring, goggle-eyed thing a poke; I’m sure I wish he would.”
“I should just like to pickaxe him with my mortar-chipper,” said an old cock-sparrow. “I’d teach him to come into other people’s trees without being asked.”
“Let’s ask him civilly to go,” said the wren.
“Let’s shout at him, and frighten him,” said the owl.
“Say ‘Ta-ta’ to him, and then he’ll go,” said the jackdaw.
“Why, we’re not afraid, after all,” said all the birds together; “let’s all have a fly at him at once and beat him off.”
“Who’ll go first?” said the jackdaw.
“Why, I will,” said the tomtit.