He turned it over. It was an awkward thing to carry; it had so very many corners. But he succeeded at last in getting it firmly between his beak, and in haste, lest some other bird should seek to dispute with him its possession, at once flew off with it. A second rook who had been watching the proceedings from the lime tree, called to a third who was passing. Even with my limited knowledge of the language I found it easy to follow the conversation: it was so obvious. “Issachar!” “Hallo!” “What do you think? Zebulan’s found a piece of broken bottle. He’s going to line his nest with it.” “No!” “God’s truth. Look at him. There he goes, he’s got it in his beak.” “Well, I’m—!” And they both burst into a laugh. But Zebulan heeded them not. If he overheard, he probably put down the whole dialogue to jealousy. He made straight for his tree. By standing with my left cheek pressed close against the window-pane, I was able to follow him. He is building in what we call the Paddock elms—a suburb commenced only last season, but rapidly growing. I wanted to see what his wife would say. At first she said nothing. He laid it carefully down on the branch near the half-finished nest, and she stretched up her head and looked at it. Then she looked at him. For about a minute neither spoke. I could see that the situation was becoming strained. When she did open her beak, it was with a subdued tone, that had a vein of weariness running through it. “What is it?” she asked. He was evidently chilled by her manner. As I have explained, he is an inexperienced young rook. This is clearly his first wife, and he stands somewhat in awe of her. “Well, I don’t exactly know what it’s _called_,” he answered. “Oh.” “No. But it’s pretty, isn’t it?” he added. He moved it, trying to get it where the sun might reach it. It was evident he was admitting to himself that, seen in the shade, it lost much of its charm. “Oh, yes; very pretty,” was the rejoinder; “perhaps you’ll tell me what you’re going to do with it.” The question further discomforted him. It was growing upon him that this thing was not going to be the success he had anticipated. It would be necessary to proceed warily. “Of course, it’s not a twig,” he began. “I see it isn’t.” “No. You see, the nest is nearly all twigs as it is, and I thought—” “Oh, you did think.” “Yes, my dear. I thought—unless you are of opinion that it’s too showy—I thought we might work it in somewhere.” Then she flared out.