"We are going to the garden,
Although its wicked warden,
Hungry early and late,
Is crouching before the gate."
_Mother._ Little Mary in the rear!
_Little Mary._ What's your bidding, mother dear?
_Mother._ Of the kite I bid you speak.
_Little Mary [after a second reconnoissance, which sends her
scampering back to her own place]._
He whets his claws and whets his beak.