"That's a strange bird," said the first sparrow; "I've seen it. It's all yellow."
"All yellow?" said the other. "What awful cheek!"
"Yes, isn't it?" replied the first sparrow. "Can you understand what it says?"
"Not a note," said the second. "Another of those foreigners, I suppose. We shan't have a tree to call our own soon."
"That's so," said the first. "There's no end to them. Nightingales are bad enough, grumbling all night, and swallows, although there's not so many of them this year as usual; but when it comes to yellow birds—well."
"Hullo," said a passing tit, "what's the trouble now?"
"Listen," said the sparrows.
The tit was all attention for a minute while the gay triumphant song went on.
"Well," he said, "that's a rum go. That's new, that is. Novel, I call it. What is it?"
"It's a yellow foreigner," said the sparrows.