"Let us take Mag with us out of doors," said Henry; and the cage was taken down and carried out between the two children, whilst Mag kept chattering all the way, and was, if anything, more pert and brisk than spoiled magpies generally are. They first went to the hut, and set the cage on the bench, whilst Henry and Emily busied themselves in putting a few things to rights about the place, which had been set wrong by a hard shower which had happened the night before. There were a few fallen leaves which had blown into the hut from some laurels growing on the outside; and Henry said:
"I do hate laurels; for they are always untidy, and scattering about their yellow leaves when all the trees about them are in their best order."
Whilst the children were going in and out after these leaves, to pick them up and throw them out of sight, Mag kept hopping from one perch to another, wriggling her tail, twisting her head to one side and another, and crying, "Oh, pretty Mag!" "Mag's a hungry," in a voice more like scolding than anything else.
"What now, mistress?" said Henry.
"She is not in the best possible temper," replied Emily.
"She wants to be out," answered Henry; "she does not like to be shut up."
"But," said Emily, "it would be dangerous to let her out here, so far from the house, and amongst the trees."
Henry was in a humour common not only to small but great boys on occasions. He chose, just then, to think himself wiser than his sister, and, without another word,
he opened the cage door, and out walked Mag, with the air of a person who had gained a point, and despised those who had given way to her.
And first she strutted round the inside of the hut, crying, "Oh, pretty Mag!" with a vast deal of importance, and then she walked out at the entrance, trailing her tail after her, like a lady in a silk gown.