“I should like to go to bed,” said Fred.
“There’s an idle-back,” said Harry; “I shouldn’t I should like to take my clothes off, and lie down under a fountain, and let all the nice cool water trickle and splash all over me. Poof! ain’t it hot?”
“I know what I should like to do,” said Philip; “I should like to sit right up there on the top of the cedar, and rock—rock, rock—rock, backwards and forwards—looking up at the blue sky, and thinking I was a soft, downy bird.”
“Ho! ho! ho!” said Harry. “He’d look like an old cock jackdaw when he’s moulting. Ha! ha! ha! what an old stupid!”
“I don’t care,” said Philip; “I know it would be nice; wouldn’t it, Fred?”
“Well, but you couldn’t sit there; the boughs would break, and you’d come down,” said Fred. “But what makes all that thick bunch of hay and rags up there? Why, it’s a nest, isn’t it?”
“So it is,” said Harry; “why, I never saw that before. Let’s get up and get it. There’s sure to be eggs.”
“I shan’t,” said Phil; “it’s too hot.”
“What a lazy old chap you are, Phil,” said his brother. “It’s a tree-sparrow’s nest, and we haven’t got a single egg. I mean to go.”
Saying which Master Harry stripped off his blouse, threw down his cap, and commenced operations.