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 branch
near the half-finished nest, and she stretched up her head and
looked at it.
Then she looked at him. For about a minute neither spoke. I could
see that the situation was becoming strained. When she did open her
beak, it was with a subdued tone, that had a vein of weariness
running through it.
"What is it?" she asked.
He was evidently chilled by her manner. As I have explained, he is
an inexperienced young rook. This is clearly his first wife, and he
stands somewhat in awe of her.
"Well, I don't exactly know what it's CALLED," he answered.
"Oh."
"No. But it's pretty, isn't it?" he added. He moved it, trying to
get it where the sun might reach it. It was evident he was
admitting to himself that, seen in the shade, it lost much of its
charm.
"Oh, yes; very pretty," was the rejoinder; "perhaps you'll tell me
what you're going to do with it."
The question further discomforted him. It was growing upon him that
this thing was not going to be the success he had anticipated.
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