Excerpt
One Afternoon.
“I say, don’t, Green: let the poor things alone!”
“You mind your own business. Oh! bother the old thorns!”
Brian Green snatched his hand out of the quickset hedge into which he had thrust it, to reach the rough outside of a nest built by a bird, evidently in the belief that the hawthorn leaves would hide it from sight, and while they were growing the thorns would protect it from mischievous hands.
But the leaves opened out slowly that cold spring, and a party of boys from Dr Dunham’s school, the Friary, Broadhurst, Kent, was not long in spying out the unlucky parents’ attempt at house-building and nursery. Still, the thorns did their duty to some extent when Brian Green of the red head leaped across the big dry ditch, rudely crushing a great clump of primroses and forcing them down the slope, for when the freckled-faced lad thrust his hand in to grasp the nest a sharp prick made him withdraw it, while this action brought it in contact with a natural chevaux de frise, scarified the back, and made a long scratch on his thumb.
“I wish you’d keep your tongue inside your teeth, Nic Braydon!” cried the boy fiercely. “You won’t be happy till I’ve given you another licking. Look here what you’ve made me do!”
“I didn’t make you do it,” said the first speaker. “Why don’t you let the birds alone?”
“Because, if you please, Miss Braydon,” said the bigger lad mincingly, “I’m not so good as you are. Oh dear, no! I’m going to take that nest of young blackbirds because I want them to bring up and keep in a cage. I’m going to transport them to the shed in the playground.”
The first boy winced sharply at his companion’s words, and the four lads present burst into a derisive laugh at his annoyance; but he smothered it down, and said quietly:— “Then you may as well leave them alone, for they’re not blackbirds.”
“Yes, they are, stoopid.”
“No, they’re not.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I found the nest when it was first built, and saw the eggs and the old bird sitting.”
“Oh, that’s it, is it? Oh, I say, isn’t he a nice, good little boy? He doesn’t want me to take the young birds because he wants to steal them himself.”
The others laughed in their thoughtlessness as their schoolfellow winced again, and Brian Green still hung on to the bank, sucking the scratches on his bleeding hand and grinning with satisfaction at the annoyance his innuendoes caused.
“I say, boys,” he cried, “they don’t transport people for life for stealing young blackbirds, do they?”
There was a fresh roar of laughter, and the boys watched Dominic Braydon, who stood frowning, to see if he would make some sharp retort, verbal or physical, and perhaps get thrashed again. But he concealed his annoyance, and said quietly:
“That’s a thrush’s nest.”
“You don’t know anything about it, Convict,” said Green.
The boy winced again; but he went on:
“Well, I know that. Blackbirds make rougher nests, and they’re not plastered inside so neatly with clay as that is....