It was a great triumph. Gaffer’s fame as a prophet was at the lowest ebb. But he knew the ways of the world, and the foibles of his kind; he stuck to his point none the less for his defeat, and never ceased to assert that young Jetsom was a mistake, and ought never to have been hatched out. Some of the older birds shared this opinion, and as time went on Gaffer began to notice with great satisfaction that Jetsom was of a disposition likely to get him into trouble. The fact was that his first adventure had caused him to reflect on the nature of things; and, as we all know, that is a dangerous habit to get into. He had told them of his adventure with the foreign rooks, and had received most strict injunctions to have nothing to do with them henceforward. He naturally asked why, but was sharply told to hold his tongue. His mother told him ghastly stories of what happened to young rooks who asked questions; and his father sat on a twig close by and cawed his admiration of his wife’s wisdom and eloquence. Old Gaffer watched them at a safe distance, and promised himself revenge for the loss of his tail-feathers. All these dreadful stories had their due effect on Jetsom’s mind, and he asked no more questions, but he could not help reflecting silently on the nature of things. And so it came to pass that he grew up a silent and philosophical rook, and it was frequently remarked that he did not make his proper contribution to that chorus of cawing which at certain times of the day is so necessary to the happiness and comfort of a rookery. He would sometimes, too, decline to accompany the others when they wheeled about in the air of an evening before settling down to roost; and from his solitary habits was often chosen to sit on a tree as sentinel when the rest were at work feeding on a ploughed field. His father and mother were quite content that this should be so, and so was he, for it redeemed him a little from the suspicion that was beginning to [Illustration:....Deep in meditation on the problem which occupied his mind.--P. 141.] fall on him; and he would often sit on his perch by the hour, pretending to keep a look-out, but really deep in meditation on the problems which occupied his mind. And so the winter passed; and with the first approach of spring the young birds of the year began to find themselves mates, and to think what tree they should select to nest in; but on that day in February with which this veracious story began, Jetsom had not yet found a bride. Yet he was too much of a rook to consider his spring complete without the duty and honour of bringing up a nestful of young, as his fathers had done before him.