He makes his call at your new nest-box door.
QUERCUS
[Skipping to the maple tree.]
Right, master!—Heigh, Sir Alwyn—ho!
Just see now what a jack-o’-trades your Quercus is!
When Master Shy discharges me, I’ll go
And rent nine fairy-rings, and start three circuses!
[Climbing among the branches, he disappears, whistling bird-notes.]
ALWYN