No doubt he was expected to go right home with that load, then and there.  Even a cock-blackbird with young, however, must feed, and, if one judged by the excess amount of energy—­if that were possible—­used up, must feed more than usual.  That seemed to be why he hid his whole load in the crook of a big bough, and, returning to the lawn, ate bread—­he could wait to catch no worms for his own use, it appeared—­as fast as he could.  Three false alarms sent him precipitantly into his tree upon this occasion, and one real alarm—­a passing boy—­caused a fourth retreat.

These operations were not performed in a moment, and by the time he got back to his nest—­mind, he had to contrive to approach it so that he was seen by nobody, and his was a conspicuous livery, too—­his children appeared to be in the last stages of exhaustion.  That, however, is young birds all over; they expect their parents to be mere feeding-machines, guaranteed to produce so many meals to the hour, and hang the difficulties and the risks.

There was no sign of Blackie’s wife.  Presumably she was working just as hard on her own “beat” as he had been on his—­their hunting-grounds were separate, though they joined—­and would soon be back.

Blackie did not wait.  He managed again the miracle of getting away from his nest without appearing to do so, and next turned up on the summer-house roof.  Fatherlike, he thought he had done enough for a bit, and would enjoy a “sunning reaction” on the summerhouse roof.  It was rather a good place, a look-out tower from which he could slip over the side into the hedges, which met at the corner where it was, if trouble turned up.

Trouble did turn up, but not quite what he had expected.  He had been sitting there, wing-stretching, leg-stretching, and “preening” his feathers, and had finally left off just to sit and do nothing, when—­lo! his wife popped up over the side without warning, and right upon him.

She was very dark brown, not black, and had a paler throat than the palish throat of most hen blackbirds—­nearly white, in fact.  She said nothing.  Nor did Blackie, but he looked very uncomfortable.  She did more than say nothing.  She went for him, beak first, and very angrily indeed; and he, not waiting to receive her, fled down to the lawn, and began worm-hunting for dear life.  A whole lecture could not have said more.

Mrs. Blackie remained on the roof for about a minute, looking round, and then flew off to her own hunting-ground.  She was wilder and less trusting of the world than Blackie, and did not care for his lawn in full view of the house windows.  And Blackie did not even stop his work to watch her go.  Apparently they had, previously in their married life, arrived at a perfect understanding.

This time, too, Blackie got a big and a small worm.  The small he coiled like a rope, and held up towards the base of his beak; the big he carved up into sections, which he held more towards the tip.  The large ones, it seemed, were too awkward and lively simply to carry off rolled up whole.