Blackie sang on for a bit, in spite of the fact that people said that it was not considered “the thing” for a blackbird with such domestic responsibilities to sing.  And two other blackbirds helped him to break the man-made rule.

As a matter of fact, I fancy he was not taking chances upon the ground while the mist hung to cover late night prowlers, for as soon as the gay and gaudy chaffinches had stuck themselves up in the limes and the sycamores, and started their own smashing idea of song, he was down upon the lawn giving the early worm a bad time.

Then it was that he heard a rumpus that shot him erect, and sent his extraordinarily conspicuous orange dagger of a beak darting from side to side in that jerky way of listening that many birds affect.

“Twet-twet-et-et-et! twet! twet-twet-twet-et-et-twet!” came the unmistakable voice of one in a temper, scolding loudly.  And he knew that scold—­had heard it before, by Jove!  And who should know it if not he, since it was the voice of his wife?

Perhaps he heaved a sigh as he rose from the deliciously cool, wet lawn—­where it was necessary to take long, high hops if you wanted to avoid getting drenched—­and winged his way towards the riot.  His wife was calling him, and it came from the other side of the garden, her side, behind the house.  Perhaps it was a cat, or a rat, or something.  Anything, almost, would set her on like that if experience, plus the experience of blackbirds for hundreds of generations working blindly in her brain—­and not the experience of books—­had taught her that the precise creature whom she saw was a danger and a menace to young blackbirds.

All the same, when Blackie arrived he was surprised, for all that he saw was a grayish bird with “two lovely black eyes,” not by any means as large as a blackbird.  When it flew it kept low, with a weak and peculiar flight that was deceiving; and when Mrs. Blackie, following it, and yelling like several shrews, got too close, it turned its head, and said, “Wark! wark!” in a harsh and warning way.

Blackie joined in with his deeper “Twoit-twoit-twoit!” just by way of lending official dignity to the proceedings.  Whereupon his wife, feeling that he had backed her up, redoubled her excitement and shrill abuse.

And they spent two solid hours at this fool’s game, helped by a robin, a blue tit, and a chaffinch or two—­the chaffinch must have his finger in every pie—­following that gray bird from nowhere, while it moved about the garden in its shuffling flight, or alternately sat and scowled at them.  But it must be admitted that Blackie himself looked rather bored, and might have gone off for breakfast any time, if he had dared.

As a matter of fact, however, the bird did not stand upon the Register of Bad Deeds as being a terror of even the mildest kind of blackbirds.  Red-backed shrike was her name, female was her sex, and from Africa had she come.  Goodness knows where she was going, but not far, probably; and the largest thing in the bird line she appeared able to tackle was something of the chaffinch size.  But, all the same, Mrs. Blackie seemed jolly well certain that she knew better.