“It was not malaria that caused us to abandon our half-built nest, but boys, some black as crows and some white as doves, kept coming to get materials for whistles. It seems that the very tree we chose had bark that slipped the easiest, and sometimes a flock of three or four would be perched on the limbs (they always sit astride, so awkwardly, you know), with jack-knives in their hands, and of course we could not stay. Robin wanted to come to the park—it is a lovely place—where those fine big creatures with bright stars on their gray coats are put to take care of us birds. Why,” she went on, “they will not let boys stone even an English Sparrow, but I think that is altogether too particular. There comes a party of the little cockneys now,” as a handful of winged brown balls came fluttering through the air close to the heads of the larger birds, who could easily have put them to flight if they would but try. However, they ducked their heads and scampered into the weeds, leaving the smooth shore to the new-comers, who dipped and splashed in the shallow edge of the lake as if they enjoyed it mightily. “Just see the horrid little things washing themselves in water, but they never can get clean. Why, my Robin, who is a very venturesome fellow and sometimes follows the boulevards almost into the heart of the city, says that he has seen them in the dirty city streets washing themselves in the dust like common barnyard fowls.” “Don’t let’s look at them,” exclaimed Mrs. Thrush. “They are doing it just because it looks respectable, and they know that we wash in water;” and the two birds spread their wings and swept disdainfully away from the neighborhood of the Sparrows. “And where did you finally build, Mrs. Redbreast?” asked the other as they settled gracefully on the shore a half a mile away.