Mid-August arrived, with its gentle indications of approaching autumn, its deepening colours and grey dewy mornings. The rowan-berries were turning a rich red, and Bessie longed for the Poet’s coming that he might fill his eyes with this last glory of the garden before the autumn set in. The nets had been long removed from the bushes, and the birds were beginning to return to the garden and resume their duties as grub-eaters—nay, some of them were even breaking out again into song. The only drawback to their happiness was the arrival of two nephews of the Poet for their holidays, who prowled about the garden with an air-gun, letting fly little leaden bullets at the birds with very uncertain aim. These boys, thus employed the Poet found on his return, and strictly enjoined to restrict their sport to such cornfields as they might find to be the especial prey of the omnivorous sparrow. He noted the presence of his birds with joy, and was still more delighted to find his treasured rowans covered with pendulous bunches of magnificent red berries, which would be a daily treat to his eyes for weeks to come. They had home-made jam that evening, and he took it as a matter of course and asked no questions. The next morning broke fresh and fine, and the Poet threw open his window long before any one in the house was stirring. His mind was filled with comfortable thoughts of home after the discomforts of foreign travel; how delicious was a garden in August—one’s own garden, with one’s own birds and flowers and trees! Ah, hapless Poet! Do not look at your beloved rowans; there is a sight there that will not please you! Three blackbirds, a missel-thrush, and half-a-dozen starlings, were hard at work snipping off the berries, and gaps in the golden bunches already told the tale of what was to happen; the ground below was strewn with the relics of the feast, which these careless epicures were leaving to rot unheeded. The Poet’s face grew dark. “Confound it all,” he broke out, with quite unusual vehemence, “they can’t have everything!” And he looked about the room—the truth must out—for something to throw at his darlings. But if he threw his boots or his soap, he might have to go and pick them up again, with Joseph Bates looking on sardonically; and then another thought, a wicked thought, came into his head and prevailed over him. He crepe softly downstairs, found the air-gun and the box of little bullets lying on the hall table, and carried them guiltily upstairs. The gun was loaded the indignant Poet leant out of the window and took a trembling aim at one black robber. His finger was on the trigger, and in another moment he might have been a conscience-stricken man for life, when a bright metallic sound suddenly broke upon his ear and held his hand. Tac-tac-tac! Tac! Ta-tac!