e more fun; whilst poor Mag's tail was so sore,
that he went home grumbling and half-crying at his misfortune.

Busier and busier the birds grew every day; there was no one idle in
Greenlawn in spring-time, but all hard at work, build-build-build from
morning, when the first rosy peep of day appeared, and the blackbird
cried out, "Wake-wake-wake," until the night closed in, and the pale new
moon peeped down from amid the light clouds, watching over the nesting
birds, with their beaks tucked snugly under their wings, and gently
swaying about upon the light branch that rocked them to sleep with the
easy motion of the soft spring breeze. Sweetly then used to sing the
nightingales, perched on the low boughs of the fresh-leaved bushes, and
whistling for their wives, not yet come over the sea; whistling and
answering one another from wood to wood, and from grove to grove, until
the night rang with the sweet sounds, and bird after bird would draw out
its head to listen to the sweet, strong-voiced warblers. But generally
the birds used to grumble at the nightingale, and say it was not fair of
him to make such a noise of a night. They wanted peace and quietness;
and one old greenfinch, who could not sing a bit, and had no ear for
music, used to say that the nightingale was as great a nuisance as old
Shoutnight, the owl, and that his noises ought to be stopped.

But one night there was such a shouting and hoo-hooing that all the
birds woke up in a fright. One asked the other what it meant, but no
one knew, and every now and then, ringing through the still night, came
the wild strange cry. Even the master of Greenlawn opened his window
and looked out and wondered, and at last crabby old Todkins, the
gardener, opened _his_ window, and even called the birch-broom boy up to
listen; but they could not make out what the noise was. Nobody knew,
and at last they began to be like the birds, rather frightened; for it
was such a wild, dreadful cry as they had never heard before.

"It's a wild goose," said Mrs Spottleover to her mate.

"You're a goose," said Spottleover, all of a shiver. "You never heard a
goose cry out like that. It's like a peacock, only ten times more
horrible; and--there it goes again; isn't it dreadful?"

The old owl said it was a rude boy trying to hoot; while the saucy
jackdaw said it was nothing to be afraid of, for it was only old
Shoutnight with a bad cold.

But, last of all, out came the old gardener