house was unoccupied, she thinks she has a perpetual lease on that
bush. She hotly resents the iceman and the butcher and the apothecary's
boy, to say nothing of me. So these worthy merchants have to trail round
a circuitous route, violating the neutral ground of a neighbor, in order
to reach the house from behind and deliver their wares through the
cellar. We none of us dare use the veranda at all for fear of
frightening her, and I have given up having the morning paper delivered
at the house because she made such shrill protest.

[Illustration]

Frightening her, do I say? Nay, it is _we_ who are frightened. I go
round to the side of the house to prune my benzine bushes or to plant a
mess of spinach and a profane starling or woodpecker bustles off her
nest with shrewish outcry and lingers nearby to rail at me. Abashed, I
stealthily scuffle back to get a spade out of the tool bin and again
that shrill scream of anger and outraged motherhood. A throstle or a
whippoorwill is raising a family in the gutter spout over the back
kitchen. I go into the bathroom to shave and Titania whispers sharply,
"You mustn't shave in there. There's a tomtit nesting in the shutter
hinge and the light from your shaving mirror will make the poor little
birds crosseyed when they're hatched." I try to shave in the dining-room
and I find a sparrow's nest on the window sill. Finally I do my toilet
in the coal bin, even though there is a young squeaking bat down there.
A bat is half mouse anyway, so Titania has less compassion for its
feelings. Even if that bat grows up bow-legged on account of premature
excitement, I have to shave somewhere.

We can't play croquet at this time of year, because the lawn must be
kept clear for the robins to quarry out worms. The sound of mallet and