He noticed, in these perambulations, that the birds now sang less frequently and heartily; but then there were more of them than ever, for the young ones were now all about the garden, and had grown so bold and tame that they would hardly get out of the Poet’s way as he moved gently along his paths. He loved them all, and thought of them almost as his own children; and no shadow of a foreboding crossed his mind that they, born in his garden, reared under his protection, could ever vex the even flow of his happiness. One fine evening, just as the strawberries were ripening, the Member of the S.P.E.B. arrived on his visit. It was agreed that they should open the strawberry season next morning after breakfast; for that, as the Poet observed, is the real time to eat strawberries, “and the flavour is twice as good if you pick them yourself in the beds.” So in the fresh of the morning they all three went into the garden, and the Poet pointed out with pride the various places where the birds had built. “We’ve had half a dozen blackbirds’ nests that we know of,” he said, “and probably there are others that we never found. See there—there’s a nice crop of blackbirds for a single season!” Out of the strawberry beds, hustling and chuckling, there arose a whole school of youthful blackbirds, who had been having their first lessons in the art of sucking ripe fruit. The elders set off first, and the young ones followed unwillingly, one or two bolder spirits even yet dallying in the further corner of the bed. The Member hardly seemed enthusiastic; he had been invited from London to eat strawberries, not to see the birds eat them. The Poet half divined his thoughts: “Plenty for all,” he cried; “we share and share alike here.” They began to search; but alas! wherever a ripe fruit betrayed itself among the leaves, its juicy flesh had been cut open by a blackbirds bill. A few minutes’ hunt had but scanty result, and the Poet became the more uncomfortable as he caught sight of Joseph Bates’s face, wearing an expression of taciturn wisdom, which suddenly emerged from behind a row of peas and disappeared again. “Poet,” said the Member, raising himself and straightening an aching back, “if it’s share and share alike, does that mean that each of us is only to count as one blackbird? I say, my good fellow, you really must net this bed if we’re to get anything out of it.” In this suggestion he was warmly seconded by Bessie, aghast at finding her treasure slipping from her so fast. The Poet was a little disconcerted; but he faced it out bravely, and with the obstinacy of his northern blood: “The _unnetted_ blackhearts ripen dark, All thine, along the garden wall,” he quoted “No; I will net no fruit in this garden.”