I
_Mrs. Thrush._ What do you think of that hawthorn?
_Mr. Thrush._ Oh, no, my dear, no; much too isolated, it would attract
attention at once. I can hear the boys on a Sunday afternoon--“Hullo,
there’s a tree that’s bound to have a nest in it.” And then where are
you? You know what boys are on a Sunday afternoon? You remember that
from last year, when we lost the finest clutch of eggs in the county.
_Mrs. Thrush._ Stop, stop, dear, I can’t bear it. Why do you remind me
of it?
_Mr. Thrush._ There, there, compose yourself, my pretty. What other
suggestions have you?
_Mrs. Thrush._ One of the laurels, then, in the shrubbery at the Great
House.
_Mr. Thrush._ Much better. But the trouble there is the cat.
_Mrs. Thrush._ Oh, dear, I wish _you’d_ find a place without me; I
assure you (_blushing_) it’s time.
_Mr. Thrush._ Well, my notion, as I have said all along, is that
there’s nothing to beat the very middle of a big bramble. I don’t mind
whether it’s in the hedge or whether it’s on the common. But it must be
the very middle. It doesn’t matter very much then whether it’s seen or
not, because no one can reach it.
_Mrs. Thrush._ Very well, then, be it so; but do hurry with the
building, there’s a dear.