78 THE HEART OF A GARDEN 
again. I have already done much towards forfeiting 
his respect, chiefly by reason of my aversion from 
calceolarias in all their varieties, and the bloated toad¬ 
like object which is their zenith, in particular. And 
now I have been making a mild moan at what seemed 
the unproductiveness of my strawberry beds that should 
have been ripe to harvest. 
“ When I was at Lord C-’s,” was I assured in 
quiet but reproachful tones, “ we pulled all the nests 
out every spring, and many’s the blackbird’s and bull¬ 
finch’s neck I’ve wrung, . . . but some won’t 
have it.” 
Needless to say that I who speak to you am numbered 
with that despicable “ some,” who prefer undiminished 
song and the dainty joyousness of bird-life in the garden 
to a surfeit of strawberries. 
“We shall have,” continued he, “to set one of the 
lads to watch this upper garden for a day or so; some¬ 
one has been cutting my nets about.” And on the 
impulse, always unwise, of the moment, I made that 
confession of which I have repented ever since. Let 
me make it here anew, and, as I trust, to more 
lenient ears. 
What would you do if, on a blue and golden summer 
morning, peacefully pottering about your sunny domain, 
shrill cries of woe and terror rose strident and piteous 
from your strawberry beds? You, at least, would go 
and look, as I did, and, unless I am vastly mistaken, 
when you made the discovery of two buxom yellow¬ 
billed thieves, hopelessly entangled in the netting, why 
you also would draw your garden scissors and set the 
