I never knew a bird with as many grudges and grievances as Augustus seems to have. He “chut-chuts” at me if I’m late with his breakfast, at Abigail when she ventures to gather a few raspberries, at the dog whenever he sees him, at the little colt for scampering down the meadow, at the cuckoo when his voice breaks—I’ve heard him get up after all the family had gone to bed, and roundly abuse a poor July cuckoo who had developed a bad stutter—and every night about sundown he admonishes the world in general, from his pulpit in a pine, despite the fact that Martha has put the children to bed and is trying to get them to sleep, and that every other masculine blackbird for acres round is discoursing on the same subject. But the poor thing has had his troubles. The first time we really distinguished Augustus and Martha (who monopolise my bedroom window ledge, and the pinks and pansy border) from Claude and Juliet (who patronise the biggest mountain ash, and consider the white and red currants and the snails in the snapdragon bed their particular perquisites) was when the former (that means Augustus and Martha, you know) built in the old plum tree that hangs partly over the green and gold grotto. Though it has plenty of snowy-white flowers on its dark stems in the spring, it has been too neglected to produce much fruit; but it makes up in flowering ivy and heavenly-scented honeysuckle for any other deficiencies. And it was in this tangled mass of loveliness that Augustus and Martha first set up housekeeping. (Augustus being always recognizable by reason of one grey feather.) They chose it with much circumspection—Martha with an eye to the easy building facilities offered by strands of tough woodbine, and sturdy ivy cables, combined with stout plum branches; Augustus with his main eye focussed on the bird-board, and the other on the accessibility of the bird-bath (originally a sheep-trough hollowed out of a block of rough stone, over which moss and small ivy are now trailing). Altogether it was a most desirable site for a young couple. They were in full view of the side window in the living room, and we watched them flying in and out, to and fro, with beaks laden with grass and straw and similar materials for household decorations. Later on, when two youngsters were hatched, there were the same endless journeyings, the same loaded beaks. But here Augustus’s perspicacity stood him in good stead; it was a very short flight from the plum tree down to the bird-board, and the pair must have nearly worn the air out, judging by the number of times they made the trip! The tragedy happened when the youngsters were nearly ready to leave the nest. And the sad part of it was that we saw it all enacted before our eyes, and yet were powerless to prevent it. We had just sat down to our mid-day meal; the day seemed all blue sky and bright flowers and gladdening sunshine—the very last day one ought to have met trouble.