“They can’t help it,” he pleaded for them. “’It is their nature to.’  They were born so.  They had no choice.”

“You actually defend them!” she marvelled, rebukefully.

“Oh, dear, no,” he disclaimed.  “I don’t defend them.  I defend nothing.  I merely recognise and accept.  Sparrows—­finches.  It’s the way of the world—­the established division of the world.”

She frowned incomprehension.

“The established division of the world—?”

“Exactly,” said he.  “Sparrows—­finches the snatchers and the snatched-from.  Everything that breathes is either a sparrow or a finch.  ’T is the universal war—­the struggle for existence —­the survival of the most unscrupulous.  ’T is a miniature presentment of what’s going on everywhere in earth and sky.”

She shook her head again.

“You see the earth and sky through black spectacles, I ’m afraid,” she remarked, with a long face.  But there was still an underglow of amusement in her eyes.

“No,” he answered, “because there’s a compensation.  As you rise in the scale of moral development, it is true, you pass from the category of the snatchers to the category of the snatched-from, and your ultimate extinction is assured.  But, on the other hand, you gain talents and sensibilities.  You do not live by bread alone.  These goldfinches, for a case in point, can sing—­and they have your sympathy.  The sparrows can only make a horrid noise—­and you contemn them.  That is the compensation.  The snatchers can never know the joy of singing —­or of being pitied by ladies.”

“N . . . o, perhaps not,” she consented doubtfully.  The underglow of amusement in her eyes shone nearer to the surface.  “But—­but they can never know, either, the despair of the singer when his songs won’t come.”

“Or when the ladies are pitiless.  That is true,” consented Peter.

“And meanwhile they get the bread, crumbs,” she said.

“They certainly get the bread-crumbs,” he admitted.

“I ’m afraid “—­she smiled, as one who has conducted a syllogism safely to its conclusion—­“I ’m afraid I do not think your compensation compensates.”

“To be quite honest, I daresay it does n’t,” he confessed.

“And anyhow”—­she followed her victory up—­“I should not wish my garden to represent the universal war.  I should not wish my garden to be a battle-field.  I should wish it to be a retreat from the battle—­an abode of peace—­a happy valley—­a sanctuary for the snatched-from.”

“But why distress one’s soul with wishes that are vain?” asked he.  “What could one do?”

“One could keep a dragon,” she answered promptly.  “If I were you, I should keep a sparrow-devouring, finch-respecting dragon.”

“It would do no good,” said he.  “You’d get rid of one species of snatcher, but some other species of snatcher would instantly pop up.”