“Bless your heart, Sir,” answered Joseph, beginning to understand the situation, “I loves to hear ’em whistling, _in their proper place_! There’s a place for everything, as the Scripture says, and the garden’s no place for thieves; so we thinks down here, Sir, and if ’tis different where you come from, there’s no call for me to be argufying about it. We’ll let ’em be, Sir, we’ll let ’em be. I hope I knows my place.” “Better than the birds, eh, Joseph,” said the mollified Poet. Joseph resumed his digging, and, as the newspapers say, the incident was closed. Later in the morning the Parson dropped in to see his new parishioner, and was told of Mr. Bates’s loquacity. “Well, well,” he said, “old Joseph is an oddity, and you must take him as you find him. But he’s quite right about the birds. They simply swarm here: the rooks and sparrows take your young peas, the bullfinches nip off your tender buds, and the blackbirds and thrushes won’t leave you a currant or a gooseberry to make your jam of.” Bessie looked up from her work with a face of alarm. “You ask my wife,” continued the Parson. “One year when we were abroad in June, and there was no one to keep watch, she hadn’t a chance with anything except the plums. Next spring we took all the nests we could find, and even then we came off second-best. Of course we like to hear them singing, as you do, but when it comes to June, you know, you can thin them off with a gun, and that frightens the rest. I always shoot a few, and stick them up on the gooseberry bushes as scarecrows. I suppose you’re not much of a hand at a gun? I or my boys will do it for you with pleasure.” “Oh, thank you,” cried Bessie, “I should be so sorry to have them killed, but we _must_ have our jam now we’ve come to live in the country. When the time comes, I’m sure Gilbert will be most grateful to you.” “No he won’t,” said the Poet: “Though all the neighbours shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of garden ground Where thou may’st warble, eat, and dwell.” “Well, well,” said the Parson, rather puzzled, “there’s time enough, there’s time enough. Tackle your weeds first, and plant your borders, and if you want the policeman in June, here he is.” And the hearty Parson took his leave, the Poet escorting him down the garden, where a blackbird was still singing. They stopped and listened. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” said the Parson. “It’s a pity they’re such rascals. I’m an enthusiastic gardener, and I have to choose between my garden and the birds, and I think you’ll have to choose too.” “Is there no compromise?” asked the Poet mildly. “Not for an enthusiast,” said the Parson, decidedly. “Then my choice is made already,” said the Poet. And so they parted.