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.
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