d at it with his left eye. With either
optic it seemed equally desirable.

That he was an inexperienced young rook goes without saying. An older
bird would not have given a second glance to the thing. Indeed, one
would have thought his own instinct might have told him that broken
glass would be a mistake in a bird's nest. But its glitter drew him too
strongly for resistance. I am inclined to suspect that at some time,
during the growth of his family tree, there must have occurred a
mesalliance, perhaps worse. Possibly a strain of magpie blood?--one
knows the character of magpies, or rather their lack of character--and
such things have happened. But I will not pursue further so painful a
train: I throw out the suggestion as a possible explanation, that is
all.

He hopped nearer. Was it a sweet illusion, this flashing fragment of
rainbow; a beautiful vision to fade upon approach, typical of so much
that is un-understandable in rook life? He made a dart forward and
tapped it with his beak. No, it was real--as fine a lump of jagged green
glass as any newly-married rook could desire, and to be had for the
taking. SHE would be pleased with it. He was a well-meaning bird; the
mere upward inclination of his tail suggested earnest though possibly
ill-directed endeavour.

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